Absalom
by piaffe417
Summary: During a murder investigation, Alex wonders if she chose her life or if it chose her. COMPLETE
1. Questions

Author's Note/Clarification: The title of this story is taken from the William Faulkner novel _Absalom, Absalom_, not the biblical story of David's son Absalom (just so we're clear). The novel (at its basest level) deals with the concept of fate and the idea of leaving a legacy - the type of stuff we all like to ponder occasionally - so thing you're about to read has been ruminating for a while thanks to said pondering. And if you're so inclined, please review and let me know how I'm doing. And finally (now that my author's note has begun to read as though Faulkner himself wrote it), I don't own any of the characters from CI - they belong to Dick Wolf and I've promised to put them back when I'm done.

_You get born and you try this and you don't know why only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs and the others all trying and they don't know why either except that the strings are all in one another's way like five or six people all trying to make a rug on the same loom only each one wants to weave his own pattern into the rug; and it can't matter, you know that, ore the Ones that set up the loom would have arranged things a little better._

Absalom, Absalom - William Faulkner (1936)

***

Alex Eames is lying on a beach in the Bahamas, the sand warm beneath her and the sun shining down from above. Her skin tingles in the warm rays and, beneath the layers of dark created by her sunglasses and closed eyelids, the brightness of her surroundings is dulled to a warm reddish glow. She's completely relaxed for the first time in weeks and feels as though she couldn't move even if she wanted to - so she doesn't bother to try.

"Mai tai?" asks a male voice with a pronounced Spanish accent.

Turning her head only as far as she needs to, she opens her eyes and smiles into the warm face of Antonio Banderas. "Of course."

Antonio hands her the drink - complete with paper umbrella - and starts to say something else to her - something romantic, she's sure. The only problem is that every time he opens his mouth, all Alex can hear is a ringing phone. 

_I've heard of cultural differences, but this is ridiculous_, she thinks - just before her subconscious mind plays the meanest trick of all and replaces Antonio's smiling face with that of her partner Bobby Goren, who appears on the beach in his most immaculate navy blue suit.

It's her cue to wake and she takes it, groggily rolling onto her stomach, the comforter still pulled over her head while she eases her right hand out of the cozy warmth of her covers to hunt haphazardly for the bedside phone. Her fingers skim lightly over the chilly wood of the nightstand and her rudely awakened brain protests the contrast of sleep-warmed skin against the cold, smooth surface. A few fumbles later, she manages to pull the icy receiver under the comforter with her.

Eyes still shut and sensing the hour to be much earlier than she planned to rise, Alex speaks one carefully chosen word into the phone: "No."

"Eames, we." Bobby's familiar voice fills her ears and sounds far too enthusiastic for first thing on a Saturday morning. Alex wonders for the thousandth time if the man ever sleeps.

Bobby pauses when her monosyllabic greeting registers and she hears him mentally regroup. "What did you say?"

"I said no, Bobby," she repeats, her voice still a bit ragged with sleep but gaining power. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. I don't care who died, who got robbed, who whatever - it's Saturday and it's early and I'm not moving from this bed until at least noon. Thanks for calling and have a great day."

His response is sympathetic but pointed. "Eames, someone killed Donald Markham's daughter last night."

Alex inhales sharply and reflexively props herself up her elbows, a movement that unfortunately permits a downdraft of cold air to slip under the comforter, awakening the parts of her body that were still dozing. "_Doctor_ Donald Markham? The country's elite child psychologist? Author of dozens of bestsellers and the mayor's college roommate?"

"That's him," Bobby replies gravely. "And the mayor has already called Deakins this morning to make sure no stone goes unturned on this one."

She groans and rubs the last wisps of sleep from her eyes, the comforter still resting over her tousled hair. "I have to get up, don't I?"

"I've got green tea chai," he says by way of answer, his tone becoming slightly impatient. He's eager to get to the crime scene, she knows, before too many detectives comb it over and disturb evidence that's so small only he will notice it.

"Give me ten minutes," she says resignedly, though before hanging up she thinks to ask, "Hey Bobby?"

"Hmm?"

"What time is it anyway?"

A pause on his end - she can tell it isn't a question he expected. His mind is already on the case ahead. "About 7:30."

Another groan from her. "Better make that twenty minutes."

***

On the way to the crime scene, Alex ponders the question that has been circling round and round her conscious mind of late with increasing frequency and persistence. She doesn't know whether to attribute its appearance on this particular morning to general crabbiness or to the same factors that bring it about on a normal day - the long hours she works, the criminal minds she deals with, and (the icing on the cake) the middle age that is creeping up on her with all the stealth of a jungle cat with a bag of tin cans tied to its tail. All she knows is that the question lingers there and it's not leaving any room on her train of thought for other passengers at the moment, murder investigation or no murder investigation.

_When did this become my life?_

When did driving to a crime scene on a Saturday morning while the rest of the city slept or jogged or pored over the newspaper become normal? When did the colors of her wardrobe stop representing the rainbow and become awash in black and gray like the pants and blazer she now wears? And when did her job invade her life so fully that she often frightens herself by remembering more details of past cases than of family lore?

"We're here," says a male voice from the passenger seat beside her and she's able to partially answer her own question. Looking over at the tall man who has folded himself up to fit in the SUV but whose knees still rest on the glove compartment, Alex can pinpoint the moment her life began its journey into whatever "this" is.

It all started the day she partnered with Bobby Goren.

She had everything planned out when she was twelve - and then again at eighteen and twenty-five and subsequent years that have followed. She had a plan for her life and a firm idea of how she thought it would be. She wasn't asking for much - she wanted to be a cop, a wife, and a mother. So far, though, she only has one of them going for her. Granted, she was married once, in what now seems like another life, but now she isn't and has found that the particular why's and how's of that loss have become less important over time, so much so that she now refers to that part of her life as "BG" - Before Goren.

As for motherhood, the closest she has been was carrying her sister and brother-in-law's child for nine months. That leaves her one for three - and number one (her job) isn't leaving her much time to work on numbers two and three lately. It's undeniable that somehow - while she wasn't looking - her plan got away from her and now she isn't really sure how to get it back. The only thing she _is _sure of is that never - not in those lists she made when she was younger or in those late-night dreams - did she ever say, "I want to play partner, best friend, ally, confidant, second fiddle, mother, sister, wife and self-help guru to the city's brightest detective. _That's_ the life for me."

Perhaps, she thinks wryly, it's her own fault. Maybe she should have been more specific in those prayers that requested a tall, dark, and handsome man to share her life with. After all, she _did_ get what she wished for - sort of - and it's what's brought her here today. Yet if this is what she wanted, it's certainly taken her far from the course she charted.

Not that she resents Bobby or their partnership - quite the opposite, in fact. She knows full well that the relationship they have is unique and very special and she treasures it. Not many people can say that they have someone in their life with whom they can communicate completely without words, someone they trust one hundred percent with their life, and someone who makes them as good as they can be. Alex can, thanks to Bobby, and she knows it's a gift - albeit an unexpected one. She'd heard things about "crazy Bobby Goren from Narcotics" when she was still working Vice and received a lot of very strange - and sympathetic - looks when she moved up to Major Case and paired with him. She'd even thought she deserved the sympathy after their first meeting, a terse affair in which neither had really attempted to make the other feel welcome.

Yet the first case they'd worked together had proven her initial sense wrong when, in the midst of assembling information about a homicide, they had unconsciously begun finishing each other's sentences. When both had realized this, their eyes locked and she had a feeling that could only be described as an internal click, like a puzzle piece had snapped into place. She'd seen the feeling mirrored in his eyes too - as though they had wordlessly struck a balance - and then saw surprise wash over his face and knew that nothing like that had ever happened to him before. There had been the smallest of smiles exchanged then and they returned to the case at hand, each still feeling the other out but already beginning to trust one another. They've been together ever since and still finish each other's sentences, though now they talk more with their eyes than their mouths. In fact, their partnership has lasted longer than her marriage, an idea that doesn't always sit well with her.

Still, if you look at it that way, Alex has a pretty good thing going - so why is she questioning her life lately? Is it because the last few cases have been front-page news with Bobby's name prominently displayed and hers tucked in discreetly off to the side? Or maybe it's because giving up the baby she'd carried inside her for three-quarters of a year was harder than she'd thought it would be? Or is it that her apartment has seemed emptier lately, that she's suddenly realized how alone a person can feel in a large city where she's surrounded by millions?

These are questions she can't - and won't - answer right now as she and Bobby stand expectantly in the elevator, rising to the eleventh floor of Amy Markham's apartment building. When the doors open, they'll meet yellow tape and medical examiners and the victim's grieving family, as well as the deceased Amy Markham herself. The locations change but the scenes generally remain the same, Alex has noticed since she joined Major Case. The whole process has become the looped film reel of her life and she comforts herself by realizing that at least she knows exactly what to do and how to do it, thanks to her many chances to practice.

_And practice does make perfect, Alex,_ she tells herself dryly as the elevator slides to a halt and deposits she and Bobby in the midst of the chaos she's become accustomed to.

Still, one of these days she's going to figure out how she got here in the first place.

Author's Note (again): Whew! Sorry if Alex comes across as depressed or whiny, but I'm driving at a point that I fully intend to get to (eventually) and then this will all make sense. Stay with me here, people - and read on.


	2. More Questions

Alex hates this part of her job. A lot of people think that she has the easy part, asking questions of the family and potential witnesses while Bobby does the dirty work of going over the body for physical evidence. But corpses don't cry and don't shake uncontrollably in one corner of the couch clutching a box of Kleenex in one hand while twisting the corner of a sweatshirt into a ball with the other. Corpses don't need to be comforted - and Alex would greatly trade places with Bobby right now if he'd try to accomplish the impossible task of comforting Amy Markham's older sister, Abby - who discovered her sister's body on the very morning that Amy Markham was to be married.

"I know this is hard, but can you tell me what happened this morning?" Alex uses her softest tone.

"It's okay - I know how it works," Abby pulls her knees in to her chest, looking much like a rumpled and distraught teenager in her faded flannel pajama bottoms and oversized Bryn Mawr sweatshirt. Her short, layered brown hair is spiky in some places from having been slept on and she keeps running a nervous hand through it, worsening the effect. Yet Alex can tell that there's strength and maturity there as she watches the young woman forcibly pull herself together. With effort, her lower lip stops trembling and her voice steadies. "I work narcotics out of the five-five."

She gestures to a discarded badge beside Alex on the coffee table and wipes a stray tear away with a shaking hand.

"That's right," Alex nods and picks up the badge to examine it. "I remember now."

It caused quite an uproar when Dr. Markham's eldest daughter graduated at the top of her class from Bryn Mawr, then entered the police academy on a dare the day after her matriculation. Alex would have had to have been comatose to miss it. Markham had tried to pull every string he could reach to keep her from joining the force but everyone had told him the same thing: not only was his daughter an adult and thereby entitled to make her own career decisions, but she was _good_. She was _very_ good and had become one of the most successful members of her squad in just a short time.

Alex remembers something else and says, "They call you Cash, don't they?"

A small smile of recognition - and of gratitude for a momentary change in subject - flits across Abby's face. "Yeah. My parents were kind enough to name me Abigail Therese Markham and therefore grant me the initials 'ATM.' The guys in my squad don't miss a chance to tease me for being the 'poor little rich girl' and that's the icing on the cake for them."

"I remember those days," Alex tells her, offering her own small smile. "I wasn't teased for being rich - just for everything else, mainly being a woman."

"They're good guys," Abigail tells her sincerely, her eyes focused on her knees. She pauses, then adds carefully, "And I give as good as I get."

"I remember those days too," Alex nods. Proving herself capable of doing the job hasn't been nearly as time-consuming in recent years and in the back of her mind she suspects that it isn't just because she's risen through the ranks and established herself with hard work and dedication. Certainly those are the primary contributing factors, but she also knows that working with Bobby, who always treats her as his equal and doesn't take flak from anyone where he - or his partner - is concerned, is the glue that holds her status together. She should resent that a little, she thinks, but she can't because she knows that Bobby isn't aware of his impact on the way people see her - or if he is, he does a very good job of playing it down. 

"Amy used to tell me I should thank her for letting me practice all of my pranks on she and my brother Andrew when we were kids," Abby tells Alex, her humor overshadowed by the grief in her voice.

"What happened this morning, Abby?" Alex asks, putting their conversation back on topic with the gentlest nudge she can manage.

Abby shakes her head to clear it and looks to the ceiling in an effort to hold back more tears. Alex can tell she's drawing on her experience as a cop to appear stone-faced, but the emotion of the situation won't quite allow it as she draws in a ragged breath and finally answers. "I overslept this morning. See, I was supposed to meet my dad, Amy, and Andrew at home at 6:45 for breakfast and then we were all going to get ready there and go over to the church together for the ceremony. Dad called around seven, woke me up, and said that Amy wasn't there yet either, could I pick her up? I said yes and got here around quarter after. Her door was hanging wide open and there were signs of forced entry, so I immediately called 911 and then ran in to see if she was okay. She. she. wasn't."

The last sentence brings another attempt to hold back a rush of tears and Alex thinks Abby is preparing to say something else when Donald Markham strides through the door, face nervous and drawn. He's not a tall man but his build is solid and he has handsome features and gray temples that give him a distinguished air. Yet there's something else about him, Alex notices - a jerky nervousness only slightly masked by the clout he brandishes like a sword as he pushes past uniformed officers and crime scene photographers. She makes a mental note to tell Bobby of this later.

Close on Markham's heels is a younger, taller version of the psychologist, whom Alex assumes to be Andrew. His features are also stricken and upset and his expression becomes frightened upon spotting Abby's disheveled state.

"Where's Amy?" Markham demands of his daughter when he spots her on the couch, pushing past the two officers who move to stop him until Alex rises to her feet and waves them off.

Abby stands too and he steps toe to toe with her in a stance that is more confrontational than paternal and asks her forcibly, "What happened here?"

"Someone broke in and killed Amy, Dad," her voice trembles over the words. Her eyes turn to her brother and fill with tears again. "She's dead."

"No," Markham's tone is pure disbelief and Andrew's knees start to give way so Abby guides him over to the sofa before he falls. He drops his head to his hands.

Meanwhile, the psychologist is rooted in place. "No. My little girl."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. Markham," is all Alex can say.

"No.. I can't." he's still in disbelief and her words are wasted.

Abby comforts her brother as best she can, wrapping her arms around him and resting her chin on his shoulder while he weeps. Her tears are still firmly in check, however, and Alex can tell that the cop in her has taken control of the scared young woman she really is. The family needs a moment alone and Alex takes the opportunity to move to the bedroom and see how Bobby is doing with the body of Amy Markham. He's been in there about ten minutes - which is usually more than enough time to make the ME nervous to the point of requiring her intervention.

Sure enough, the team from the coroner's office is giving Bobby wide berth and glancing nervously at each other while he leans in close to the maimed body in the bed, sniffing for something that only he will recognize.

"What have you got so far?" Alex asks, pulling on a pair of gloves and seizing a brief moment of physical stillness on his part as he inhales. Moments like that with Bobby are few and far between and she's learned to grab them whenever they occur.

"Mm - maybe nothing," he replies distractedly. He cups his hand and wafts the air over Amy Markham's blood-spattered face towards his nose again before muttering, "Cinnamon coffee."

She shakes her head wryly, then turns to the coroner's team and tells them, "We'll need another minute. I'll let you know when you can finish up in here."

They nod in what appears to be a grateful manner and file out.

"Look at this, Eames," Bobby stands upright and points to the fatal wound on Amy's neck, a knife slice that travels from ear to ear. Blood mats her long brown hair and her eyes are staring fixedly ahead in a terribly disturbing manner.

"Her throat was slit," Alex observes aloud, craning her neck to see from her position near the door. She's never lost the sense that a dead body is a shell of a person who was recently living, a rarity in her line of work, and it always sickens her to be so close to evidence of man's inhumanity to his fellow man. Bobby, on the other hand, sees them as puzzles to be solved and isn't squeamish around them.

"What am I missing?" she asks him.

"Ah," he holds up one latex-covered finger to get her to pause, then delicately peels back the sheet and comforter that tucks the body neatly into bed. "See where the blood is?"

"It's all on the inside of the covers," Alex breathes, beginning to see where he's going. "That means she wasn't killed here - the body was moved and the murderer put her into the bed after she was dead."

Bobby nods vigorously. His mind is already awash in possibilities and he's searching his encyclopedic brain for some seemingly useless bit of trivia that will help them make sense of this, she knows. Meanwhile, Alex is openly confused and says so.

"But the door was jimmied," she shakes her head, perplexed. "Her purse was stolen and her closet was ransacked. So why would the killer take the time to kill her in one place and then tuck her in before leaving? Plus there's no blood anywhere else in the apartment, which means wherever she was killed has been cleaned. It makes no sense, Bobby."

"She knew her killer," he tells her evenly, blinking rapidly the way he does whenever he's working through a complex thought. "And the killer cared about her - see how the sheets are neatly folded over the comforter? She was tucked in like a small child. Besides."

He moves excitedly over to the open closet where hangers of clothing and shoes and boxes are wildly strewn about, his lanky body resembling a fast-moving ostrich in its haste. A pair of jeans lies at his feet and he picks them up.

"Dolce and Gabana jeans," he tells Alex. "Practically new - do you know what these would bring on the street?"

He doesn't give her a chance to answer, but keeps picking up clothes. "Prada, Ralph Lauren, DKNY - this is all high-end stuff that the so-called robber left behind."

"I don't know whether to be impressed at your knowledge of fashion and women's clothing - or scared," Alex tells him in the tone she reserves for those occasions when he surprises her by saying something that no other self-respecting man - especially not a macho, ex-military New York City detective - would even admit to knowing.

"I was at the dentist last week and the only available magazine in the waiting room was _In Style_," he shrugs off-handedly, his voice trailing off at the end because he's eager to get back to the case at hand and take the focus away from him. "The point is, the robbery wasn't the motive - killing Amy Markham was."

"Then we'd better go ask her family who would want to kill her," Alex tells him succinctly.

He follows her into the living room where a young man, blond and handsome with an air of good breeding, has joined Abby, Andrew, and Dr. Markham. Alex assumes he is Amy's fiancé, Keith. The four are huddled around the sofa, Abby still holding the hand of her brother while their father stands distractedly by. The blond man is seated on the coffee table facing them but Alex notices he and Abby are careful to avoid each other as the group speaks in hushed tones. She makes another mental note to ask Bobby later if he noticed this.

Seeing the detectives enter the room, the group rises as one and faces them. Bobby takes the lead, striding over to introduce himself to Dr. Markham and the rest.

"Doctor, I'm Detective Bobby Goren and you've already met my partner, Alex Eames," he's using the smooth tone he reserves for delicate situations such as this one. "We're sorry for the loss of your daughter."

"Sorry for her loss?" the doctor repeats incredulously, face reddening a bit. "Detective, I expect you to find out who did this to her and make _them_ sorry!"

"We will, sir," Bobby nods, but a quick glance to the back of his neck just visible over his shirt collar confirms what Alex already suspects: the little hairs that the barber missed the last time Bobby got a trim are starting to stand up. Her partner hates being told what his job is and Dr. Markham has gotten himself off to a bad start.

As if sensing this, Abby steps in. "Dad, the detectives know what they're doing. Yelling at them won't bring Amy back."

Alex watches surprise wash over Bobby's face - he isn't used to having complete strangers stand up for him. He recovers quickly, though, by introducing himself: "And you are?"

"Abby Markham," she tells him, not moving from her brother's side.

He glances quickly back at Alex, who reads his eyes and gives a quick, affirmative nod.

"They call you Cash at the five-five, don't they?" he rolls his head back to face Abby. "You're in Narcotics?"

"Yeah," she nods. "Grayson's squad."

"Detective, I hate to point out the obvious," Dr. Markham interrupts harshly, "but this daughter is still alive. I'd really rather you figure out what happened to my other daughter, the one who has been heinously murdered."

Abby frowns at this, though doesn't look surprised and Bobby's starting to openly glare at the psychologist now so Alex decides to step in before things get out of hand.

"Sir, we realize it's been a very difficult morning for all of you," she uses her best smoothing-over tone. "What would really help would be if you could each tell us where you were last night and then give us your contact information so we can follow up later."

"You certainly aren't implying that we're suspects?" the doctor protests. "My son and daughter and Amy's fiancé would never have reason to kill her."

"We can't confirm that you're not until we know where you were last night," Alex tells him through gritted teeth. She can feel Bobby, in his accustomed station behind her right shoulder, tense also.

"I was at the Waldorf for the rehearsal dinner and then I went home," he huffs in response, then adds pointedly, "And I would never harm my child."

Bobby doesn't say anything, just turns to Abby who tells him, "I was at O'Malleys with the guys from my squad from 9:30 until about 1:00 - one of our guys is changing units and we were giving him a send-off. Then I went home and went to bed."

Alex nods to Andrew. "What about you?"

He looks nervous and overwhelmed when he responds. "I was at the Waldorf with Dad until about ten, then I stopped here at Amy's for a bit and went home around eleven." As though realizing how that might sound, he gulps and hastily adds, "She was alive when I left."

"And you?" Bobby takes over and gestures to the blond man. "Keith McMillan, is it?" 

"Yes," he nods. "How'd you know?"

"Newspaper," Bobby says with no real inflection. "I hear you'll own half of New York by the time you're thirty."

"For what that's worth," is Keith's lackluster reply. His eyes are red-rimmed from crying and Alex thinks he should be sitting instead of standing because he sways slightly, like a blade of grass in the breeze.

"Where were you last night?" Alex asks him.

"I went to see friends and then I went home," he says, but his eyes shift to Abby almost imperceptibly while he forms the words.

"Like I said before, we'll need contact information from each of you and you should come down to the precinct and make a statement," Alex tells the group before she and Bobby head out.

And it's only when they're back in the car driving to One Police Plaza that she starts to think about her question from earlier in the morning, then realizes how insignificant it seems compared to that of Amy Markham. Alex's life may have taken an unexpected direction, but at least hers is reversible.


	3. Pondering

Author's Note: For the sake of this writing, Alex's deceased husband will be referred to as Michael. Why? Well, frankly I don't know his name and I've always liked the name Michael, so there you go.

Saturday or not, there has been a murder which means there is still paperwork to be completed and reports to make before Alex can resume her now shortened weekend. Deakins has been called in to One Police Plaza too because there will need to be a statement to the press – and because the mayor has ordered them to be there as a special favor to the Markham family. To bring him up to speed, the detectives adjourn in his office, Bobby assuming his normal seat by the window and Alex sitting opposite him, trying not to notice the cheerful rays of sunshine that creep in behind him through the blinds. She feels like a child waiting for the school bell to ring on a Friday afternoon and the caffeine from her morning cup of tea has long since worn off, prompting her stomach to remind her that she hasn't had lunch yet either.

From where he's perched on the corner of his desk, the captain also looks like he could use a jolt of caffeine and Alex can tell that he hates the situation he's in. Markham is a local celebrity and the gory details of the crime will give the press much to print in the coming days, which will make their job of finding the killer that much harder and puts Deakins in the middle of a war of information. She doesn't envy him the task of fielding a sea of questions that have no answers as of yet; questions that come from the press, the mayor, fellow detectives, and even some that may come from she and Bobby. How he keeps everything straight is beyond her.

"Would it be too much for you to tell me that this was just a robbery gone bad?" Deakins wants to know, his tone indicating that he already knows the answer to the question. His weathered face is tired the way it is during the workweek – he hasn't been able to enjoy much time off either.

"From everything we saw, murder was the motive," Alex tells him apologetically. Just once, she'd like to tell the captain that his theory holds water - that a case is just as it appears - and see how he reacts. She suspects, however, that the shock might kill him.

"Somehow I knew you'd say that," he shakes his head. "So what are we thinking here?"

"Her purse was stolen and the door was jimmied, but the body was tucked carefully into bed, like a child," Bobby steps in. He's resting his elbows on his knees and has clasped his hands together, index fingers extended to make a resting place for his chin. It's his thoughtful pose. "Whoever killed her cared about her very much and didn't relish the task. The robbery was just a cover to throw us off."

"A lot of valuable items were left behind," Alex thinks back to the clothes Bobby mentioned. "And the apartment was cleaned before the killer left because there was no visible blood anywhere except where the body was found, which was not where she was killed. We're waiting for forensics to tell us where the actual murder took place."

"So why would anyone want to kill Amy Markham?" Deakins throws up his hands. "Everything I've ever heard about the girl says she was practically a saint – she graduated top of her class from Wharton, worked at the biggest PR firm in the city, and was marrying the golden boy of New York real estate. If her sister had been killed, at least we could blame it on some angry crackhead she put away."

Alex and Bobby took the time to gather some additional information about the Markham family before the captain's arrival through a quick Internet search and Alex takes the opportunity to add layers to the framework he's just assembled – layers that she knows will completely alter its shape and complicate their case further.

"Actually, we found out that Amy and Keith have only been a couple - and engaged - for a month," Alex tells him. "But what's more interesting is that before they were together, he and Abby Markham were an item for five years."

"So you think she was killed by her jealous sister?" Deakins looks perplexed. The brotherhood that makes up the police department never allows officers to suspect their coworkers when crimes are committed - which is not to say that cops are never guilty of breaking the law, but rather shows how deep loyalty of those in blue runs. True to this behavior, Deakins is obviously having a hard time pinning this one on Abby Markham, even in theory. 

"Not necessarily," Bobby shakes his head and holds up a hand to indicate he's about to share something useful too. "We also learned that Andrew Markham has a history with illegal gambling and that the last two times he was picked up, his twin sister Amy bailed him out."

"So you think that he killed her because she wouldn't loan him money to cover his debts?" Deakins tries another tactic.

Both detectives shake their heads and Deakins now looks completely flummoxed, ultimately spouting in frustration. "Then what _are_ you saying? Do you have any suspects at all on this case, or should I just tell the press that Dr. Donald Markham's daughter was murdered on the eve of her wedding and, gosh darn it, we just don't know who did it?"

"That's a pretty good start," Bobby rises and shrugs his shoulders. Alex knows he doesn't do this to purposely annoy the captain, but rather because all sarcasm is lost on Bobby when his mind is busy whirring over the details of a new case.

"Very funny, Goren," Deakins frowns and Alex can't help but smirk, just a little. "Come on, people – give me something to work with. Markham is big news. He's not only helped other people's kids deal with everything from drugs and phobias to wetting the bed, but he raised his three children alone after his wife died. He has his own segment on the _Today_ show, for crying out loud! 'No comment' isn't going to cut it on this one."

"We'll know more after the autopsy and when forensics gives us their report," is all Alex can tell him.

"Great," he fumes. "I have the dead daughter of a prominent psychologist but no suspect and no motive – and for this I came in on a Saturday."

Alex stands now too and she and Bobby both move towards the door, sympathetic to his position but in a hurry to resume their own weekends nonetheless.

"I want Abby Markham's autopsy results first thing on Monday," Deakins calls after them.

They turn in unison and speak together: "_Amy_ Markham."

Deakins throws up his hands again and mutters to himself. "Abby, Amy – there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet and the Markhams couldn't get past A!"

Alex chuckles and she senses that beside her Bobby is smiling too as they make their way to the elevator and out of the building.

***

For all of her eagerness to be off-duty and free to do what she likes, however, Alex soon finds herself at home – alone – in her comfiest pair of sweats watching a movie on cable. The old Alex – the Alex of the "BG" era – would have called up a friend or two or six and gone out to a movie or a club. (Of course, the old Alex would already have plans for her Saturday night in the first place – a date or a night out with the girls – but this is present-day Alex, who is perfectly accustomed to curling up on the couch with a mug of tea and a snack.) What's more, present-day Alex doesn't know who she'd call if she wanted to go out anyway. She hasn't dated anyone since early in her pregnancy when she went out with Terry, a banker who was interesting but intimidated by her job and impending surrogacy. And by this time of day, she knows that most of her female friends are spending the weekend with their husbands and children anyway.

Even Bobby Goren has plans, she realizes. Granted, it's his weekly visit to see his mother, but they're plans nonetheless. And, if she knows Bobby – which she does, and quite well – he'll swing by the little Italian place around the corner from his apartment on his way home and flirt with the waitress who's always giving him extra breadsticks and batting her eyelashes at him. Alex gives the flirting routine another few weeks, then she figures he'll take the waitress – Gina? Is that her name? – out on a few dates (probably to a gallery opening or two) and that will be the end of things. Afterwards, he'll continue to eat at the little bistro and, with the sort of grace that only Bobby possesses, he and Gina will remain amiable and probably resume flirting, but, like the rest, nothing will ever come of the two of them. When you get right down to it, Bobby spends too much time living in his head and relationships (like plants) require the fresh air and sunlight of the outside world. 

_He's still having a more active social life than you, Eames,_ Alex thinks, using her last name to chide herself. _And what's worse is that you know him well enough to live vicariously through him. We've got to get you over this hump and back out there._

And yet, as she begins to channel surf following the movie's credits, she is suddenly struck by the notion that, while she's well-versed in how to get herself "back out there" – after all, she did it after Michael died - she isn't sure what she wants when she arrives. She knows what the plan _was_, way back when – the husband, the kids, and the job - but now that it hasn't panned out, she wonders if it's still what she's looking for.

And if that isn't it, where does that leave her?

***

The forensics report appears on Alex's desk first thing Monday morning and reveals that Amy Markham was killed in the hallway, then moved. This news is unremarkable, though helpful, and things don't get really interesting until she scans the autopsy report. Alex reads it over with raised eyebrows – twice, just to make sure she's read everything correctly - before passing it across her desk to Bobby, who tilts his head to the left in a crystal clear question: _What did they find?_

"Looks like Amy Markham wasn't quite the saint she was made out to be," she tells him with the knowing smirk of a longtime cop who knows that no one is ever just as they seem. "She was pregnant."

His eyebrows arch in surprise. "How far along?"

"Not far enough to show in her wedding dress, I'm guessing," Alex replies dryly.

He runs a thoughtful hand over his perpetually stubbled jaw. "A shotgun wedding. Kind of an outdated concept, but I suppose if your father is Donald Markham you wouldn't want to make headlines by having a child out of wedlock. It also explains the break-up between Abby and Keith McMillan."

"I'd break up with him too if he slept with my sister," Alex tells him off-handedly, her eyes scanning another form as she speaks.

Bobby's eyebrows lift again and he tilts his head to the right, a pondering pose. "The question is, would you kill her for sleeping with him?"

Alex puts down the form and looks him in the eye. "My sister and I shared clothes, the family car, and a bedroom but we never shared boyfriends. If she'd stolen one of mine, I'd be pretty upset."

"Upset enough to commit murder?" he repeats pointedly.

"Well," she begins, "_I _ wouldn't – but I can't say the same for Abby Markham. She told me that she gives as good as she gets – and there was definitely something going on between she and McMillan on Saturday."

Bobby leans back in his chair. "Yeah, I saw that. They were making a conscious effort to ignore each other."

"You think we should find out just how upset Abby was over the whole thing?" Alex asks him.

He nods his assent and rises to grab his overcoat from the hook behind him. Alex puts on her blazer while he throws a few pieces of paper into his battered notebook and then they're off to Abby's apartment – the sight of which causes Alex to let out a low, impressed whistle as she parks the Explorer in front of the building. "I know she isn't paying for this on a cop's salary."

"She's probably not the one paying for it," Bobby reminds her as he climbs out of the passenger seat.

"My dad was in the wrong line of work," is Alex's comment as she locks the doors and follows him into the impressive lobby.


	4. More Pondering

The detectives are making their way towards the doorman, who is chatting amiably with one of the residents, when the front doors open behind them and Abby Markham strides in, sweaty and breathing hard from a recent jog. She spots the pair immediately and approaches, pulling off her headphones and running a hand through her short, damp hair. "Wish I could say I was surprised to see you, detectives."

Her tone is resigned but not rude and Alex notices that her face is still pale and pinched. The run was probably as much about fleeing from her grief - and the chaotic situation her family is in - as it was about fitness. Alex remembers those days, the ones that seemed so surreal that she had to inflict physical pain on herself just to prove that she still existed. They come back sometimes, though the visits are rare, but even so she knows exactly how Abby feels.

"We'd like to ask you a few more questions about your sister if we could," Bobby offers, using his friendly "sorry to impose on you" tone. He's already tilting his head to the left while he gazes at her and Alex knows he's trying to glean every clue he can from the way she behaves from here on out. It's an off-putting method of interviewing suspects, Alex feels, but she has to admit that it gets results.

Abby pales at the words "your sister" and narrows her eyes in confusion at Bobby's stance, but replies steadily, "Come on then."

Her apartment is on the ninth floor of the building and reflects the tastes of someone well brought up. The walls are done in soft, muted tones, a Sandra Lerner painting tops her mantle, and books of classic literature with leather bindings fill her neat, white bookshelves. Even her furniture is elegant and classical, Alex notes upon entering directly behind Abby. Bobby will be impressed.

Sure enough, as soon as they're in the door, he's nosing around – quite literally – hands folded behind his back as he scans her reading collection and admires the painting.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Abby offers, helping herself to a bottle of water from her fridge and in no visible hurry to talk to them about her sister. Alex senses she's taking as long as possible to collect herself but nothing about her behavior indicates she's hiding anything – so either she's innocent or she's an actress of Oscar caliber. Time will tell.

"No thanks," Alex shakes her head, still watching Bobby with bemused interest from the corner of her eye. If he starts picking things up, she may have to step in; he tends to make people nervous about the safety of their possessions.

"Water would be great," Bobby says, distracted and bent to a ninety-degree angle to better examine the bottom bookshelf, hands still behind his back.

Abby stares at him with a skeptical expression. "Sure…"

Alex offers a half-smile. "He likes your book collection."

Abby still looks dubious as she reaches for another water. "I've heard his methods are… _unorthodox_ – but seeing him in action is… uh…"

"Words can't describe it," Alex finishes for her.

"You can say that again," Abby says gratefully, reaching into a cupboard for a clean glass.

Alex moves into the living room and seats herself in an overstuffed chair by the sofa while her partner rights himself and lifts a dog-eared paperback from the coffee table, flipping it open to reveal carefully underlined passages and margins filled with scrawled notes in different colors of ink.

"You like Faulkner?" he asks Abby, lifting his eyes as she pads in from the kitchen with his water in her hand. He holds up the book so she can see the cover.

She nods and hands him the glass, ice cubes clinking. "Yeah – I had a professor in college who made him really accessible. He's got some good insights."

"_Absalom, Absalom_ – this is the one he wrote while he was reading _Moby Dick_, isn't it?" Bobby is getting into a conversational mood now and Alex settles herself more firmly in the chair. There will be questions pertinent to their investigation in there somewhere, she knows – eventually.

"Yeah," Abby seats herself on the couch and folds her legs beneath her. Her tone becomes grandiose and a bit sarcastic as she summarizes the story, "The classic tale of a family unable - and unwilling - to escape their fate."

She pauses and a smirk crosses her face. "I like to reread it now and then to prove that my family isn't as bad as I think they are – or at least I used to..."

"You've read it often, though," Bobby observes. Abby stares at him like he's just sprouted two heads so he gives a reassuring laugh and indicates her writing on the pages. "You've made notes on top of notes here."

She shrugs. "There's a lot to think about – questions about fate and observations on how the timing of things is important. I mean, an hour late can mean you miss dinner or you miss saving someone's life. Faulkner asks whether we control time or it controls us. He implies that fate may already have chosen our ultimate path and that the time at which events occur is predetermined to steer us on that course."

"But Faulkner also tells a story," Bobby reminds her, eagerly adding his own thoughts. He hefts the book in his hand again. "Take this one, for instance. Absalom was David's son. He killed his half-brother for raping his sister, fled Jerusalem, and ultimately returned to usurp his father's power. Faulkner's tale plays pretty true to that if I recall."

Abby's jaw drops slightly and she shoots a glance at Alex, who can't even feign surprise at his revelation. Yes, Bobby's read the Bible. He's also read the Koran, the Talmud, and basically everything else he can get his hands on. He's a walking card catalog and not much he says in reference to obscure facts known only by other true scholars throws Alex anymore. Abby, however, is unused to this so Alex steps in.

"His library card gets more exercise than most tri-athletes," she offers dryly.

"I'll say," Abby's tone still matches her expression of wonder. Alex has to give her credit, though - she recovers quickly and turns back to Bobby, sounding more like a college student than a cop when she says, "You have to remember that he plays with the story in his version, though, and brings in the question of fate when he implies that Thomas Sutpen doomed the family right from the beginning. See, Faulkner always wanted to write about a man who wanted sons…"

"…and was destroyed by them," Bobby finishes for her, seating himself on the couch on the opposite end from Abby, near Alex's right elbow. He's settling down now and Alex can tell he's preparing to get down to the business of their investigation.

Abby's face is visibly impressed. "Very good, Detective Goren. It's hard to find another cop who understands literature – or who's read a book, for that matter."

"He's a rare find, all right," Alex agrees with her, slightly under her breath, which earns a half smile from the young woman but Bobby ignores.

He continues, eyes sharpening as his words gain focus. "It follows the Bible story pretty closely, though, right? I mean, the illegitimate son tries to marry his half-sister."

Alex can't help but admire her partner right now as she sees how masterfully he's just steered the conversation. He's laid out the framework of a scene and now he's starting to add color, bit by bit. She waits for her cue to enter.

Abby nods, her expression closing off in an indication that she's seen the change in conversation occur too. "Yeah."

Bobby leans back ever so slightly and Alex knows it's her turn to speak now – he gave her the opening with his nonconfrontational, "I'm just like you" good cop routine and now she has to be the bad cop and ask the hard questions.

"Did Faulkner ever write about a younger sister getting pregnant by her older sister's boyfriend?" Alex asks pointedly.

Abby inhales sharply and says nothing but Alex doesn't back down. "Amy stole your boyfriend – a man you loved. That must have made you angry."

"Look," Abby shakes her head, attempting to gain control of herself, "I didn't kill my sister. I know it looks like I had the perfect motive, but believe me, I didn't do it."

She pauses to set her water bottle on the coffee table, then looks at them both evenly. "Yes, Keith and I dated for five years and yes, I loved him. Six months ago, he even proposed."

She looks down at her hands as she continues. "Now, I know that's every little girl's dream come true, but it wasn't mine. Believe me, I gave it a lot of thought, but I realized it would have meant quitting my job and becoming everything I've spent the last few years trying _not_ to be. Everyone makes a big deal about me joining the force on a dare, but the truth is I was looking for something to do with my life that didn't leave me teaching _Moby Dick_ to a group of bored, Ivy League-bound prep schoolers. And this job is the first thing I've found that I'm really good at." She pauses and leans back. "Needless to say, Keith didn't like that. We broke up and the next thing I know, he's using the old 'I'll date your sister to make you jealous' trick to try to win me back."

"It obviously didn't work," Alex comments.

"It might have," Abby tells her with a shake of her head, "until Amy came to me and said she was pregnant and that she and Keith were getting married."

Bobby steps in now. "That must have been a shock."

"A _shock_, detective?" Abby repeats bitterly. "That is the understatement of the century. But more than shocked, I was confused. I mean, Amy and I weren't always terribly close, but she knew everything that was going on with Keith and I and she had to know that he was using her to get to me. Amy wasn't dumb and I can't figure out for the life of me how she got herself into the situation that she did."

"Have you asked Keith about it?" Alex finds herself agreeing with Abby about the lack of visible logic in the situation. Their case keeps getting harder instead of easier.

Abby's face becomes stony before Alex's eyes and her answer is clipped. "Keith and I don't exactly talk the way we used to, Detective Eames."

Bobby's head has begun to swivel and Alex can tell that he's trying to assess what she's just told them for clues. In the meantime, he looks sly and plays the devil's advocate. "Maybe he stopped pretending and picked her over you."

Abby shakes her head rapidly. "No way. Keith wanted me back and…"

She censors herself quickly and Alex raises an eyebrow to her partner, who blinks to indicate that he too realizes they've struck a nerve and possibly informational gold.

"You and Keith were still together while he was with Amy, weren't you?" Bobby lowers his voice and seeks out her eyes with his own.

"No," Abby shakes her head again and her eyes rise to meet his. "No, I wouldn't let him. It's just…" She trails off again, then picks up quickly – louder. "Oh what the hell. You're going to find out somehow anyway."

"Find out what?" Alex puts in.

"Friday night," Abby begins, "after the rehearsal dinner and after I was at O'Malleys with my squad, I came home and found Keith sitting outside my door. He was pretty upset and said he needed to talk to someone so I let him in. I'd been drinking and wasn't thinking very clearly or I would have realized my mistake and gotten rid of him. Anyway, one thing led to another and we slept together. In fact, that's how I forgot to set my alarm. When my dad called, he woke both of us up."

"Keith certainly got around in your family," Alex observes unabashedly.

"It wasn't like that," Abby tells her quickly. "We just… we still have a connection. But before I left to go to Amy's we agreed we'd made a mistake and it should end right there. We also agreed that no one could find out - my dad especially. He already thinks I'm the family black sheep."

"You've lied to your father about a lot of things in the past," Bobby infers.

A sly but slightly embarrassed smile finds its way to her face. "Let's just say that child psychologists make lousy parents and I owe my success as a cop to my dad." She pauses and drops her eyes. "People wonder how a high society girl like me can blend into the drug scene, how I can pick a dealer out of a crowd from a hundred yards away. They don't realize that I spent the better part of my teenage years hanging out in situations exactly like the ones I now get paid to break up."

"You were seeking his attention," Bobby nods in understanding and Alex watches him empathize with her. He thinks she's innocent; it's written all over his face and Alex can hear it now as he speaks with her.

"Yeah and I got it too – for the ten minutes it took him to send me to one of those anonymous upstate camps where they dry you out under a pseudonym while your friends back home think you're at a Swiss boarding school," Abby spits the words.

"Your brother, he's done some very similar things," Bobby starts fishing.

Abby shakes her head to indicate that he's made too much of a generalization. "Andrew has his own demons to deal with, Detective. If you want to know about them, you'll have to ask him yourself."

"We'll do that," Alex assures her.

"Just know that he wouldn't hurt Amy," Abby's tone softens and yet is at the same time emphatic. "Ever. They were twins; they had a connection." 

Bobby nods sincerely, then rises in a sudden motion, prompting Alex to follow suit. "I think we've taken enough of your time, Miss Markham. You've been very helpful, though – thank you."

Abby stands too and walks them to the door. As she lets them out, she tells them, "Look, I've heard a lot about you and I know you're the best detectives Major Case has so this goes without saying, but please find out who killed my sister. Out of my entire family, she was the good one and she deserved better."

Alex and Bobby can do nothing but nod in assent as they depart. They're silent in the elevator, sobered by Abby's parting words, though Alex also finds that her mind has begun to wander again, not over the clues of the case, but rather about something Abby Markham said when she was talking with Bobby about _Absalom, Absalom._

Yet he also makes the reader ask if we control time or if it controls us. He implies that fate may already have chosen our ultimate path and that the time at which events occur is predetermined to steer us on that course, Abby had said of Faulkner.

If that's true, Alex thinks, than the few ironic moments in her life that she stored away as coincidental were, in fact, always meant to be. And the more she reviews them in her mind, the more she begins to see the possible validity behind the idea that Abby described – which would mean that this place she's in right now is where she was meant to be all along.

Take, for instance, her reason for transferring to Major Case in the first place – a reason she shares with Bobby. That one event could spur two people in different departments to make the same change is not so unusual, especially when the event is a significant one. Yet it's never occurred to her until now that there might be something more to it than pure coincidence and an accident of timing. 

Granted, it wasn't that Alex hadn't been considering a transfer before Michael's death in the line of duty, but the event had been the catalyst that finally made her file the paperwork. It was a horrific reminder her of her mother's greatest fear during her growing up years – the fear of that middle of the night phone call to say her father was never coming home. Her mother's phone call never came, thankfully, but watching Michael's parents – as well as her own – go through the aftermath of the one she received was enough to make her want to protect them from the feeling again. She announced she was quitting Vice the day after the funeral - and the looks of relief on her parents' faces validated her decision. 

As for Bobby, she couldn't be sure of his line of thinking prior to Michael's death; all she knew was that her partner had been deep undercover when word of the murder of a fellow Narcotics officer from another squad hit the streets and reminded him of the danger he faced. Bobby had been so transformed into the character he was playing at the time that he was on the verge of crossing over onto the other side of the law. Michael's death was the jolt that brought him back to reality, prompting him to find a job that relied less on his chameleon-like acting abilities and more on his skills of deduction. Alex knows all of this about her partner because he told so one night over a late dinner when they'd been working for an eighteen-hour stretch and both were suffering the effects of being simultaneously wired and exhausted. Michael's name had remained unspoken – even mentally drained Bobby had enough tact to keep that to himself – but the date of Bobby's transfer lined up with Michael's death and Alex knew he couldn't be referring to anyone else. 

It's almost funny, but back when Bobby had shared his epiphany with her, Alex recalled being strangely grateful that Michael had been the one to save Bobby and put him in the department where he truly belonged. She had also thought it a shame that they'd never met because she figured they would have liked each other. But thinking about it now in the elevator and in context with Abby's words, Alex feels a bit uneasy because she realizes that Bobby only came into her life after Michael left it. If Michael were still alive, she wouldn't have Bobby. The two men don't coexist, but rather one is present in her life because the other isn't. So if this is her fate and her pre-established path, then is she to believe that Michael was destined to die so that she could be paired with Bobby? And if that's the case, then she's facing a lot more questions than answers –none of will put her any closer to pulling out of this funk (or whatever it is she's in).

The elevator slides to a stop and the doors open, but neither partner moves. Alex is still lost in thought and it's only after she realizes that Bobby is staring at her – waiting for her to precede him through the doors – that she becomes alert.

"You okay?" he asks as the doors glide shut behind them and they make their way through the sunlit lobby.

"Yeah, fine," she replies nonchalantly, trying to sort her thoughts so that she's one hundred percent in the present and focused on the outside world.

Bobby still looks at her quizzically but he says nothing and lets her walk ahead of him through the double doors and onto the street.


	5. Answers and More Questions

Author's Note: At some point you have to stop editing and just post the chapter – or at least that's what I'm telling myself. This one's a little more about the case than Alex, but I promise lots of introspection in the next chapter. This is also a good time for another disclaimer, so here it is - you'd think after five chapters I'd own them, but no such luck.

Abby's doorman has resumed his post in front of the building as the detectives emerge and Bobby drops from his position behind Alex's right shoulder to sidle up to the older gentleman for a few questions.

"Hi, I'm Detective Goren and this is my partner, Detective Eames," he says by way of greeting, voice very formal. "We were just upstairs talking with Abby Markham about her whereabouts on Friday night and were hoping you could verify them for us. Were you on duty Friday during the evening hours?"

"Yeah," the man – whose nametag identifies him as Dave – replies, his accent very thick and originating somewhere in Brooklyn. "I worked an all-night shift to cover for Rick so he could go upstate and visit his mom. You talked to Abby about her sister? Tragic – that Amy was a real nice girl."

"We're trying to figure out who may have killed Amy. Can you tell us what time Miss Markham went out and what time she returned?" Bobby asks, tone switching to friendly and inviting now that he knows the doorman will talk.

"She left all dressed up around four – I think she was headed for the rehearsal - and came back to change clothes around nine," Dave tells them with a casual shrug. "She left to meet her squad a little while later, and got back sometime around one in the morning. Those guys know how to party so I knew she'd be late – I just didn't know she'd have two people looking for her by the time she got back."

Bobby's head tilts automatically to the left, puzzled. "One of those people was Keith McMillan, right?"

Dave nods and his words get a bit defensive. "Yeah. I hadn't seen him in a while – what with the whole engagement to Amy and all – but he was real insistent that he talk to her. He said he couldn't see himself walking down the aisle on Saturday unless they talked – how could I argue with that?"

Bobby shoots a quick glance to Alex that is at once mildly annoyed with the melodrama Dave has just described, but also indicates that he is filing it away for future reference. Abby's story holds up with the one Dave has just told them, though.

"And the other person looking for her was…?" Bobby turns back to Dave. The second visitor is the more important in this story, Alex knows. Besides, she's rather curious herself.

"Her father," Dave replies in an off-handed manner. Apparently he doesn't take Dr. Markham's presence as seriously as Keith's. "He didn't come in or anything, but he was parked in front of the building for a long time - until Mr. McMillan got here, I think. I'm not really sure – I came out for a smoke and saw Markham talking on his cell phone and pulling away so I figured he got a call from one of his patients and had to go."

"He didn't come in but you knew it was him anyway?" Alex puts in, confused.

She feels Bobby step closer to her and lean in for Dave's answer. He's invading her personal space – as usual – and she can feel his breath on her neck. Normally this doesn't bother her – she's used to it – but today she fights back an urge to elbow him in the ribs and hiss at him to back up because he's smothering her.

"Oh yeah – it was his car," Dave assures them.

"He has a particularly unique car?" Alex can feel Bobby's ears perk up as he asks the question. He was paying close attention before, but his concentration has doubled because his chest is now pressing firmly against her shoulder. She counts inwardly to ten and crosses her arms in front of her chest so that an errant elbow doesn't get away from her, all while wondering why she's suddenly so irritated with her partner for being his usual self.

"Dr. Markham is the only one I know with a silver Audi T/T and vanity plates that say 'PSYCH,'" Dave explains with a shrug.

"But he left just as Mr. McMillan arrived?" Bobby asks, finally backing away from Alex and moving to stand beside her. She exhales and drops her arms.

"Yeah, I think so," Dave responds.

Bobby looks at Alex and she knows they're thinking the same thing: Abby Markham has just been crossed off the suspect list at the same time that her father has been moved to the top.

"You've been very helpful," the partners tell Dave as they hurry to the SUV.

***

Markham's office is posh and well befits a man with his own regular segment on the _Today _show. Awards and diplomas adorn the pale blue walls and the furniture is classic and designed to put visitors instantly at ease. Toys and games line the back wall, reminding the detectives that the people he works with are children, and there are a few crayon drawings tacked to a large bulletin board just inside the door as well.

While his office is inviting, though, the doctor himself greets them in a resigned manner similar to that of his daughter, though whereas her behavior was not unfriendly, his is disdainful of their presence and suggests that he intends to humor them rather than actually help with the case.

He seats himself behind his desk and clasps his hands in front of him while Bobby and Alex seat themselves in two visitors' chairs, then frowns and removes his glasses as he begins to speak. "I assume from your presence that the statement I made to the other officers was not sufficient, detectives?"

Bobby hesitates and Alex recognizes her cue to step in. Her partner hasn't decided how he wants to act with the psychologist yet and wants her to make the first move while he concocts a plan of attack. Forget the fact that he's read all of the man's books and pored over every article Markham has ever written to research this visit, Bobby isn't ready yet so she needs to cover for him.

Alex sighs inwardly, feeling put upon and annoyed again without really knowing why. This is, after all, a partnership that she's half of. "We've learned a few things recently that we wanted to follow up on with you."

"Such as…?" he wants to know, voice tired.

Bobby twists his head and plays with his pen while he prepares to play the game of cat and mouse that he loves so well. "Didn't you tell the officer that you went straight home from the Waldorf Friday night?"

"Yes I did," Markham nods.

"Did you forget to mention parking in front of your daughter Abby's building for a half hour on the way?" Bobby asks. He's screwed up his face as though confused and glances over at Alex as though to ask her if they've made a mistake. Apparently his plan for the moment is to play dumb, his façade undoubtedly inspired by their surroundings and the doctor's air of blatant superiority. He wants to lull Markham into thinking they're bumbling so that maybe he'll slip up and provide some useful clues. It's worked before and Alex sees no reason to believe that it won't work here.

The doctor hasn't answered so Bobby continues to look perplexed, "Her doorman said you were parked outside – was he mistaken?"

"No, I was there," Dr. Markham raises himself up as high as he can in his chair and gathers his words together with utmost care. "Abby was acting a bit oddly at the dinner and she has a history of erratic behavior so I wanted to make sure that she was home safe from her night out with her coworkers."

"But you didn't go inside…" Bobby's confusion seems genuine now and he switches out of his inept persona to flatter the psychologist. "I've read some of your books, Doctor, and I have to say they're very good. I particularly liked _Dealing With the Willful Child_ – that's how you see Abby, isn't it?" Again, no room for Markham to respond, just a flow of words, "In it, you say that children with independent streaks need to feel secure when they're acting out, to be checked up on by an authority figure like a parent. Why didn't you take your own advice?"

Markham looks surprised, then recovers his haughty air. "Checking up is all well and good, Detective, but my book deals with children specifically and Abby is an adult who had been drinking. Once I saw that she was home safely, I left rather than go in because I didn't want to trigger a fight the night before her sister's wedding."

"Oh I get it," Bobby flashes a grin, "doctor knows best."

Markham is frowning again and Bobby waves him off. "No, it's okay. I mean, you have a Ph.D. and all so you should know better than me." He pauses, then his face grows serious, "I have a theory of my own, though. Try this: I think you didn't go in because you saw Keith go in instead. In fact, maybe you weren't checking on Abby at all; you were checking on Keith. You thought he might be cheating on Amy…?"

Alex watches her partner assume his interested look while he waits for Markham's reply and fights the urge to shake her head. She could write a playbook of all of Bobby's moves; she's seen them enough.

"I had no idea Keith was going to see her," Markham leans back in his chair. "All I knew was that they had an argument at the rehearsal dinner that Amy had to break up and that Abby was in a foul mood."

"What were they arguing about?" Alex wants to know.

He smiles at her, patronizing. "I'm not privy to that information, Detective. Amy wasn't sure and Abby doesn't confide in me."

"Come on," Bobby prods, reverting to playing dumb. "You must have some idea – I mean, all those years of studying human behavior..."

Markham rolls his eyes. "Abby's behavior tends to be anything but ordinary, Detective."

"That's true - she sure embarrassed you when she joined the ranks of the blue collar working stiffs," Bobby hangs the thought in the air.

"She lives to test me," Markham huffs. "She's been that way since she was a child. Thankfully my other two children were much easier on my nerves."

"Yeah, Andrew's turned out real well," Bobby nods, dropping the sarcastic words casually to gauge the psychologist's reaction.

Markham flinches but his voice remains steady and he ventures a small smile when he says, "Andrew's had some difficulties in his life, but unlike his sister, he takes advice and puts it to good use."

"_Your_ advice?" Alex asks pointedly.

"Of course," Markham nods, self-assured. "He's hit some rough spots but I've always been able to help him through."

"That's funny," Alex lets off a little steam, "we heard that Amy was the one who used to bail him out of jail."

Markham flinches again. "She did – but I have always been his counselor."

"Isn't counseling your own child a conflict of interest?" Alex is relishing her role as bad cop now, if only because she's feeling her anger towards Bobby dissipate while she puts the doctor in the hot seat.

"Andrew doesn't trust anyone else," Markham replies. He sighs, then adds, "He was in a terrible car accident when he was sixteen. He was with a group of teenagers headed to Myrtle Beach for spring break. Andrew was driving and they'd all been drinking; he lost control of the car and they skidded off the road. Two of the five died and Andrew's never forgiven himself. I sent him to colleagues of mine for counseling but he wouldn't open up to them. Finally Amy suggested he talk to me – she practically dragged him in here – and I've been counseling him ever since. It's the least I can do for my son."

Alex doesn't remember reading about the doctor's son being in a horrific car accident so she's guessing that it's yet another moment he's had erased from his children's records, just like Abby's drug possession and rehab. _The very least you can do,_ she thinks bitterly, looking to Bobby to see what he's thinking.

Her partner doesn't say anything, but reaches over to seize a five by seven photo from the doctor's desk and flips it around to admire the smiling faces of the three Markham children on what appears to be Amy Markham's graduation day. He shows it to Alex, then pulls it back and glances over it again.

"That Amy, she was the pride of the family," Bobby observes. "I guess the third one really was the charm for you, eh?"

"She was only two minutes younger than her brother," Markham inserts tonelessly. "But yes, she was the least troubled."

Bobby's face lightens. "Finally perfected your methods on her, I guess. The ones that made it into your books, I mean."

He doesn't wait for an answer, but prattles on: "You have the perfect setup. What better way to try out new theories on child development than to use your own kids? I mean, they're right there and you said yourself the older two are troubled…"

He trails off and Markham's face reddens. "How dare you!"

"Hey, I'd do it," Bobby shrugs and Alex winces in preparation for Markham's response to his flippant words.

"My children are not – nor have they ever been - psychological experiments," the doctor fumes. "I raised them the best way I knew how."

Bobby shakes his head and grins, playing with fire a bit. "Hey, I understand how work sometimes follows you home. It's made quite a celebrity out of you anyway."

Markham leaps to his feet, indignant. "Detective, I did not allow you to come in here and accuse me using my children as guinea pigs, I let you in so I could help you solve my daughter's murder, something that you're not even attempting to do right now! This conversation is over."

Bobby holds up his hands and gives another ridiculous grin as though defeated. He returns the picture to Markham's desk and rises to his feet, Alex doing the same. 

"Sorry to waste your time," Bobby says by way of parting, his tone insincere.

"The mayor will hear about this," Markham threatens as they make their way out the door and past his receptionist.

"Yeah, well the mayor is also going to hear about his college roommate arranging for the death of his own daughter," Bobby whispers to Alex as they step into the elevator.

***

"So tell me what you're thinking on this one," Alex asks her partner as they settle themselves into a booth at a local coffee shop for a much-needed caffeine pick-me-up. He's been pensive and quiet since his parting words at Markham's office and she recognized that he was sorting his thoughts, but curiosity now has the better of her and she wants to know how he's reached the conclusion that Markham was involved. After all, being a jerk is (unfortunately) not a crime, nor does it make someone a murderer.

Bobby sets down his coffee, freeing his hands to gesticulate while he explains – a true sign that he's put his thoughts into some semblance of order.

"Markham has every appearance of being the perfect father, right?" he begins. "He's got three kids that he's raised on his own and he's a renowned child psychologist – a pillar of society - so the automatic assumption is that he's got it all together."

"He might have that appearance, but his kids seem out to wreck it for him," Alex puts in, sipping her latte.

"Exactly," Bobby smiles in agreement. "He makes his living telling other people how to raise their kids, so how do you think it looks if he can't control his own? Amy sounds like the last straw because up until last month, she was living the life he wanted for all three of his children. She was proof of his abilities as a doctor and a parent."

"So you think he killed her – or rather had her killed – because she messed up?" Alex asks, perplexed. She reminds Bobby, "Amy was going to marry Keith and continue on as though the mistake hadn't happened – what did Markham have to be worried about?"

"Abby," Bobby points out quickly. "He saw Abby and Keith fighting at the rehearsal dinner, probably even heard Keith saying that they weren't through since Abby told us that Keith still wanted her back – and I'm guessing that Markham knew it."

"So he stakes out Abby's apartment, waiting for Keith to show up," Alex starts filling in the blanks. "If he doesn't, life goes on…"

"…but he does, so Markham has a problem," Bobby finishes for her.

"They might get back together and Amy's wedding might get cancelled," Alex jumps in again. "Then Markham has one daughter with an illegitimate child and another who's at fault… But doesn't that mean that he would want Abby out of the way instead?"

"That's the part that doesn't add up," Bobby admits with a shake of his head. "All I can think of is that Keith and Abby were together all night so he didn't have an opportunity."

"But the wedding was going to happen anyway – and a murder is a much bigger scandal than someone getting left at the alter," Alex points out.

"That's why it was made to look like a robbery," Bobby reminds her. "But that's where the killer made his mistake – he cared about Amy and couldn't just slit her throat and leave her there. He tucked her into bed and cleaned up before he left. Stealing her purse and ransacking her apartment was an afterthought."

"You say _he_ – am I to assume that we've crossed Abby off the list of suspects for good?" Alex wants to know.

Bobby nods. "We haven't talked with McMillan yet, but she had no reason to lie about anything. Besides, she told us that Amy was the good one, that she deserved better than she got. She wanted Amy to live the life that she couldn't – with Keith and the esteem of their father." He pauses, then, "Abby saw it as Amy atoning for her sins."

"It's still not making a whole lot of sense, Bobby," Alex leans back in the booth. "I'm beginning to see why Abby reads that book so often now – although the family Faulkner wrote about must be incredibly crazy to make the Markhams look normal."

Bobby's eyes suddenly grow wide and he sits up straight. "What did you say?"

Alex frowns at him. "I said the family in the book must be pretty crazy to…"

He cuts her off by leaping to his feet and grabbing his coat, coffee, and notebook. "We have to go."

"What? Why? What did you just figure out?" Alex demands, hurrying after him.

"It's the book – I should have seen it before," he says, half to himself.

"The book?" Alex repeats, perplexed.

Bobby stops his headlong rush towards the exit and whirls to face her. "Remember the story of Absalom? The one from the Bible?"

"I didn't commit it to memory, but…" She trails off. "Oh my God, Bobby – you don't think…?"

"It's the reason she had to marry Keith. Markham couldn't afford for that wedding not to happen."

"But we can't prove it now – it's too late; she's been cremated."

"All we need are the family medical records – they're twins after all."


	6. Questions for Bobby

Author's Note: I promised you more introspection in Chapter 6 and here it is! Who says Goren has to do all of the thinking? Let's give Alex a chance, shall we?

"Let me get this straight," D.A. Ron Carver looks down his nose at the detectives seated before him in Captain Deakins' office, "you want me to subpoena the Markham family medical records because of a novel that William Faulkner wrote in 1936?"

Bobby tilts his chin up to meet the attorney's eyes, then looks down again. "No, the book gave me the idea, but it's not actually connected to the murder."

Carver's beginning to look a bit annoyed so Alex tells him, "We need Amy Markham's medical records to prove that Keith McMillan wasn't the father of her baby."

"And what do you think you're going to find in the rest of the family's records, detectives?" he asks, biting off the words.

Bobby looks down at the floor, then glances sideways at Alex before he replies, "I need them to prove that Andrew Markham was the father."

Deakins, who up until now has been standing quietly in the corner of his office observing, steps forward, voice incredulous: "Incest? In the Markham family? Do you have any idea what you're saying, Goren?"

Bobby's head waggles and he puts up a hand in his defense. "It's the only answer that makes everything fall into place – the need for Amy to marry Keith and the hasty arrangement of the marriage altogether. Markham was worried about what would happen to his reputation if anyone found out."

"But how would anyone find out?" Carver wants to know, crossing his arms over his chest. "Even if she didn't marry McMillan and had the baby out of wedlock, how would anyone know it was her brother's?"

"Markham would know," Bobby says simply, as though that's enough. "He would know and it would taint his legacy. That baby would be a constant, present reminder that he failed as a parent not once, but three times and it would have eaten away at him. He couldn't live with it. Men like Markham need to believe their own press; it gives them a sense of worth, of making a mark on the world."

"But why murder her?" Carver frowns. "Why not an abortion?"

"Unacceptable," Bobby shakes his head. "He needed to wipe the slate completely clean. Besides, with Amy still alive, there was always the chance that it could happen again. He thought he could control both she and Andrew, but it turns out he was wrong."

"Do you think he was the one who actually committed the crime?" Carver wants to know.

"No," Bobby shakes his head. "Most likely he got someone to do it for him – probably Andrew since he spends so much time counseling him. It would have been easy for Markham to convince him that he needed to clean up his own mess and that killing Amy was the only way."

Deakins collapses into his chair and covers his eyes with a hand. "Do the two of you live to make my life difficult? If you do, it's working. The mayor has already called me three times this morning – the last time after that stunt you pulled in Markham's office."

He lifts his hand to peer at Bobby. "You accused the man of using his children as psychological guinea pigs, Goren."

"It's the truth," Bobby shrugs nonchalantly and Alex fights the urge to roll her eyes. Her partner has never learned the fine art of tactfulness where press cases like the Markham family's are concerned.

Carver, meanwhile, is still perturbed. "Even if this outlandish story is true, Detective, but I can't take any of it to a judge to subpoena the family medical records."

Bobby's face washes over with frustration now and Alex knows that this is another one of those cues – she's supposed to come up with something that will smooth the situation, some miniscule detail that she can hand to Carver that will make the subpoena happen and get Bobby and his investigation back on track. There's even a long silent pause in the room as everyone – including Alex herself – waits for her to do just that.

And today she can't.

Bobby's hanging out on a limb waiting for her to pull him back in and instead of helping, she rises suddenly and hears her own voice say, "Excuse me a moment, please."

They watch her go, expressions stunned, but no one says a word as she makes her way through the bullpen and down the hall to the ladies' room. Inside, she splashes cold water on her face and stares at herself in the mirror for a long moment, searching the familiar features for some sign of recognition of what's happening with her lately and finding only more confusion in the furrowed brow and probing eyes.

Why is she so annoyed with Bobby all of a sudden? Is it because he represents such a large part of this life that she never asked for – a life that to hear William Faulkner tell it might have been chosen by some power higher than herself?

Maybe that's it. Maybe she resents the idea that she might very well be stuck here despite the fact that no one asked her if "here" was where she wanted to be. No one asked if she would be okay playing Tonto to Bobby's erratic Lone Ranger. No one asked if she minded helping him load silver bullets into the weapon that is his brain and putting him back up on Silver when he falls off.

No one asked her - but now here she is, doing the job anyway. And what does she get in return? A pat on the back from Deakins and Carver every now and then and a side mention under Bobby's name in the newspapers.

Granted, it's not like she took this job for the accolades. In all honesty, she's uncomfortable with being singled out for praise – one thing that she's always admired in her partner too. Yet it's hard to hate such attention (or have feelings about it at all) when it seldom comes your way and Alex feels more and more pushed into the background and taken for granted lately.

"Better let Goren interview this one – he's tricky," they'll say, and, "Don't know how he does it – it's the damndest thing. Talks to them a bit, jumps around – even took his shoes off once – and they crack. Genius!"

Never mind the fact that Alex is in the room too, reeling Bobby in with her eyes when he starts to venture into dangerous territory and setting him up for success with the various performances she has perfected over the years, playing everyone from overly-masculine female police officer to simpering member of the "fairer" sex.

She might as well be wallpaper as far as those outside observers are concerned.

Yet usually it's only the outside observers who treat her that way. Usually Bobby is careful to give her full credit for all of her contributions and even for some of his, careful to remind them that the Goren/Eames partnership is fifty-fifty. But lately he's been slipping. Lately he's been setting her up with his little stage cues and expecting her to be there without giving it a second thought, which is the mark of a good partnership but also makes Alex feel a bit used.

And that's probably why she's been annoyed with him all day.

With a sigh, she dries her face and hands with a paper towel and heads back to her desk, telling herself that it's probably just a temporary phase brought on by stress and the fact that they've been spending too much time together. It will pass.

But as she reaches her desk, the niggling thought in the back of her mind is still the same one that was there earlier, the one that she is living her fate right here and right now and that she's somehow trapped and unable to escape.

She wonders again – more angrily this time – why things are this way. If she and Bobby were "fated" to be together, why couldn't they be like normal people or even like characters in the movies - "soulmates" who find each other and live a happy normal life like everyone else? She knows it's possible because she found it with Michael. Theirs was a relationship that made her feel completely safe in her own skin and free to step outside her cop persona, to let her guard down. She feels that sort of security with Bobby most of the time, but unlike with Michael, she never really gets a sense of being off-duty when she and her partner are together. Sure they talk about things other than their caseload when they go out for the occasional drink after work, but Alex still finds herself monitoring his behavior and weighing his words the way she does when they're interviewing suspects, watching him constantly for any indication that he's out of balance and poised to pull him back onto his feet again. They work in tandem this way and part of her wishes he had somewhere else to turn so that she doesn't always have to be the one to reassemble the pieces when he breaks. But that's her lot in life – her fate, it seems – and the only saving grace seems to be that she's good at it.

Yet before she goes blaming too many of her problems on Bobby, she has to admit to herself that, despite the fact that his brain doesn't appear to possess an "off" switch, she does like spending time with him – usually. On those days and in those moments when he's telling her tall tales from his tour of duty in Europe or she's relating incidents from her wild teenage years and they're just laughing like the friends that they ultimately are, there's no place else in the world she'd rather be.

Lately, of course, that hasn't been the case.

A glance through Deakins' still-closed door reveals that Bobby is in the midst of arguing his case with both the captain and Carver and she decides not to re-enter the fray. They'll need to speak with Andrew Markham next and she hasn't studied his file very carefully so she walks around her desk to Bobby's to retrieve it.

The folder lays open in his much-abused and ever-present notebook and she picks it up, lifting it from the rest of the strewn contents with care, though not before something else catches her eye. She's never really paid too much attention to the notebook (save knowing that it goes wherever he does – including the restroom on more than one occasion), so she's never glanced inside long enough to see the scattered bits of paper that float there like confetti, each scribbled with notes in his slanted, left-handed scrawl. Most of them are written in a stream-of-consciousness manner and probably only make sense to him, but the scrap of paper that Alex has noticed is written in straight lines and appears to have been copied with care, as the letters are all carefully placed and the words are (frankly) legible. She glances stealthily towards Deakins' office again, embarrassed to be snooping, but sees that Bobby is now standing and has begun waving his arms at the men. She knows that this will extend the argument a bit longer and curiosity overcomes any guilt she might feel as she uses the tips of her fingers to slide the paper into the open, her eyes quickly scanning the words:

__

Well, so that is what happens and what has happened and you might as well admit it and now you will never have two whole nights with her. Not a lifetime, not to live together, not to have what people were always supposed to have, not at all… Not time, not happiness, not fun, not children, not a house, not a bathroom, not a clean pair of pajamas, not the morning paper, not to wake up together, not to wake and know she's there and that you're not alone. No. None of that… You ask for the impossible.

For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway (page 168)

And below, a one-word note from Bobby himself: _Moments._

Alex feels her eyes narrow in surprise and feels something catch in her chest as she finishes the passage, hastily moving to tuck the paper back in with its mates before someone sees her. Another furtive look at the captain's office reveals that Bobby has apparently won because the arm waving has ceased and he's moved towards the door while Deakins and Carver look annoyed but beaten. She snatches up Andrew's file and hurries back to her own desk, sinking into her chair with a heavy sigh.

_He sees it too._

She shouldn't be surprised, she thinks, because after all, who ponders more about abstract ideas than Bobby Goren? Fate and destiny and other concepts that twist the brain into knots are right up his alley_._

Still, Alex finds herself unsettled at what she has just read because it's as though Bobby has looked into her mind and pulled out her very thoughts by the roots. Even more frightening is the fact that she hasn't shared her philosophical questions with him at all - meaning that what she has just discovered is evidence that Bobby too has examined their partnership and found it to be more than just coworkers and friends. In fact, his carrying the passage around with him puts the Robert Goren stamp of authenticity on all of her thoughts from recent days, verifying that she's right and this is her fate – _their _fate. And – maybe even worst of all – it appears that Bobby accepts this. He sees the path they're on and has arranged his life to fit it rather than seeking change. That's his way after all, as Alex knows: never ask for more so that you don't end up with less in the end. 

Alex sits in stunned silence, Andrew's open file before her but unread while questions flood her mind, most of them now concerning Bobby's take on their partnership and what it means to him.

Y_ou're turning into him, you know_, the voice in her head informs her. _You've been living in your head for the last few days – which is what he does all the time. Of course, you know what they say about married couples becoming like each other…_

Bobby's walking towards her now, face a bit concerned about how she's doing, and she suddenly has an appreciation for how he must feel all the time – trapped inside his head and surrounded by ideas and thoughts that all clamor for his attention simultaneously. How he makes them all behave is beyond her and she suddenly feels a bit sympathetic towards him – and much more forgiving than she's been recently.

"You okay?" he asks, seating himself at his desk facing her. His eyes are narrowed and soft and she can tell that he's sincerely worried about her. Usually he's the one whose behavior is unpredictable and her doing visibly puts him off so.

"I've had a lot on my mind lately," she tells him honestly, trying to smile reassuringly. "But it's no big deal."

"Anything I can help with?" he offers earnestly.

_Explain to me why we accept without question these lives we've found ourselves leading,_ she thinks ruefully, but says only, "Not really, but thanks, Bobby."

He doesn't like being pushed away and it shows on his face as he formulates a plan to work around the barriers she's put up between them. It's the method he usually reserves for suspects and Alex tries not to become annoyed with him again for reducing her to a psychological puzzle to be assembled. To quell the annoyed feelings that rise, she reminds herself that Bobby doesn't really know any other way to behave – it's a reflex that he can't really control.

"So are we getting the medical records?" she finally asks to change the subject.

"We should have them this afternoon," he nods. As he looks at her, his face grows concerned again and he asks, "Want to go grab some lunch while we wait?"

She doesn't really want to, afraid that he'll find a way inside her head and then she'll have to confront the questions that she has finally begun to push aside for the moment. She doesn't feel ready to deal with them again so soon, but at the same time, something inside her is telling her to go, to spend time with him and see if she can't find some answers to match to her questions. Her stomach has also chosen this moment to rudely remind her that breakfast was a long time ago, which ultimately seals the deal.

"Sure," she tells him.

"Amanati's okay?" he looks a bit relieved and rises to retrieve his overcoat.

"Sounds great," she gives him a half-smile and they head out the door.

***

Amanati's is a cop hangout around the corner from the courthouse (as well as being the workplace of Bobby's waitress-friend and current crush, Gina) and the partners eat there often enough to know most of the regulars. Today, though, they also encounter Abby Markham, who is finishing up lunch with her narcotics squad, a ragtag group of men of mixed racial heritage who all sport battered street clothes and wear their badges on chains around their necks. Abby fits in perfectly in washed-out jeans with the bottom hems let out and a faded navy blue FDNY sweatshirt, though her badge is absent.

"I can't seem to get away from you people," she observes as they make their way past the group's table to a booth in the back.

"Abby," Bobby nods a hello and Alex does the same.

Choruses of "Hey, Goren," spring up around the table as the four men Abby's with recognize a former member of their department. A few tease too – "Nice suit." "Lunch is on you, right?"

"Hey guys," Bobby is shaking their hands and patting them on the shoulders in greeting the way men do when they have lots in common. Then he teases too, "They giving you lunch breaks now?"

"Yeah," a wiry Latino man tells him with a grin. "Since you left anyway."

"We deserve it since we're short a team member and all," says a bulldog-looking guy with a shaved head.

"Hey, we're working as fast as we can on the case, Berlutti," Bobby tells him.

"Yeah, well Cash didn't do it so they should just let us have her back," the Latino puts in simply.

"You know the rules, Sandoval," Abby tells him. "As long as the case is open, I'm on administrative leave. Technically, I probably shouldn't even be having lunch with you losers."

"Good – then you're buying," says the dark-skinned man seated directly across from her.

"You wish, Liston," Abby snorts. She turns to the detectives. "How _is_ the case going?"

"You know we can't discuss it with you," Bobby tells her with a blank face. "And I hope it goes without saying that you should stay out of it."

__

"Can't blame me for being curious," she shrugs with a disappointed smile.

"Come on, Cash," Berlutti says, "let's head out and let the detectives eat. Goren needs to keep up his strength."

He rises and shadowboxes with Bobby for a quick second as the others grab their jackets and deposit tips on the table. Then they move towards the door and Bobby and Alex make their way to a booth in the back.

"Old friends, huh?" she comments with a raised eyebrow, sliding across the red vinyl seat and stowing her jacket by the window.

He nods. "Worked with Berlutti my first year in narcotics. Good guy."

"They care about her," Alex nods in the direction of the group, who have stepped outside but are still chatting easily on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Berlutti says something to Abby that causes her to slap him on the shoulder and the five laugh as one.

"She fits in with them," Bobby agrees as he observes them over his shoulder. Then his head turns back around and he focuses his gaze on Alex.

"So what's going on with you?" he asks curiously.

She pretends to study the menu (which she's memorized) in order to buy time and says only, "I've just been thinking a lot lately. It's nothing important."

His brow furrows and she fights the urge to scowl with annoyance because she recognizes the expression creeping over his face: it's the patented "I don't buy what you're saying for a minute and I intend to get to the bottom of your lie" look.

He doesn't speak, just continues to stare and ultimately she does scowl at him and snap, "I don't really want to talk about it, Bobby. Can we just order?"

Help arrives then in the form of the beautiful Gina, who brings their usual drinks – ice tea for her and coffee with one cream for him - and says, "Hey you two! Chicken Parmesan on special today. What'll you have?"

"Chicken Parmesan sounds great," Bobby doesn't tear his eyes from Alex's face.

She glares back at him. "Bowl of minestrone and a Caesar salad."

"Be out in a jiff," Gina sounds confused at their behavior – disappointed even – as she departs.

The staring contest continues for a few more moments, then Bobby finally breaks the contact with a resigned blink and leans back in his seat, an indication he's changing tactics.

"Fine, we don't have to talk about it," he tells her.

"Thank you," Alex doesn't believe he's let it drop for a moment.

Silence ensues and Alex plays with her straw wrapper while her partner stares out the window, apparently lost in thought. Normally, a silence between the pair is comfortable and even welcomed, but this one is strained and ultimately Alex feels the need to make it cease – all the while regretting that there's only one way to accomplish such a feat.

"Do you ever wonder how your life ended up where it is, Bobby?" she ventures.

He turns to face her, face puzzled. "What do you mean?"

She continues to fiddle with the wrapper. "I mean, do you ever think maybe fate stuck you here without asking your opinion about it first?"

His face clouds over in thought and she waits patiently for the answer he's constructing. Many people would be flippant if asked such a question, but Alex knows that Bobby will take it very seriously because she has asked him with the utmost sincerity. He learned the hard way that he couldn't make light of her questions after she asked him his opinion on abortion and he shot off a rather careless, "I'll let you know if I ever get pregnant." Cut to the quick, she had forced him to re-answer in earnest and he must have seen something in her expression because when he did, he'd moved his chair close enough to her that their knees touched and looked right into her eyes. He's always been careful of her feelings since and she knows that this time will be no different. He will think and speak carefully because he knows she will accept nothing less.

"I think," he finally says, tone soft, "that fate gets blamed for a lot of things that maybe it shouldn't." He isn't meeting her eyes, but directing his words towards the table. "The truth is, I don't know if there's anything to the whole concept of fate or not. What I do know from personal experience is that there comes a point where you have to make a decision about whether you will accept your life as it is or do everything in your power to change it. Then whatever decision you make, you have to embrace it fully, otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life agonizing over your choice and make yourself miserable in the process." Another pause and he looks up to meet her eyes. "And that's what I think."

He looks nervous as he waits to see what she will say in response to his words and she gives a nod to reassure him that she appreciates his candor. 

"You chose change," she infers.

"Yeah," he nods and his eyes continue to shift a bit uncomfortably. Bobby likes to put people on the spot but is uncomfortable with role reversal. Alex knows, however, that he will let her hold him there until her curiosity is satisfied simply because it's her – and that knowledge causes a small wave of guilt to wash over her as she thinks about how poorly she's treated him all day.

"You chose to leave the army for narcotics and then to leave narcotics for major case," she adds another layer.

"Yeah," he nods again.

"So is that it or do you see another life-altering choice on the horizon?" she wants to know. Part of her pictures she and Bobby working cases involving missing dentures and bingo scams in a nursing home when they're ninety, but the rest of her is coming to realize that, whether she and Bobby are fated to be together or not, this thing they have going right now is not permanent. Somehow she knows that her choice is coming soon and that she will have to do exactly what her partner just said, choose to accept this place she's in or find a new one.

"I don't really know," Bobby shrugs and gives a slight smile. "I kind of like where I am right now. It has its moments."

_Moments._

That was the word he'd written below the Hemingway passage in his notebook and Alex feels as though she's starting to get it. If you can't have normal things and a normal life, you have to grab those moments whenever they present themselves – moments like this one where she's sitting in an Italian restaurant having a frank discussion with her best friend and feeling better than she has in a few days.

Of course, the next thing she knows she's back in reality because Abby Markham is storming through the restaurant doors and making a beeline for their table.


	7. A Clearer Picture

Author's Note – Sorry it's been so long in between updates, but I had no idea how I was going to finish this thing. (I mean, I know how I plan to _finish_ this thing, I just didn't know how to get there.) But now I think I'm back on track. We're approaching the thrilling conclusion – stay tuned…

"You've subpoenaed my family's medical records?" Abby fumes as she strides up to the table, her pretty face marred by a snarl. "What the hell do you think you're going to find there?"

"You must have some idea, judging by your reaction," Bobby says, responding to her challenge by sliding out of the booth and rising to his full height of six foot four. He's staring down at her in a way that is both annoyed and curious and Alex can see the wheels turning in his head. He's trying to figure out what, exactly, Abby knows based on the anger she's displaying – and how much he can get her to reveal.

Alex, meanwhile, shakes her head at Abby's behavior. After all, the only people who knew the medical records were coming into play were Deakins, Carver, Bobby, and Alex herself so Abby must have a source on the inside – a sneaky move on her part.

"I assume you got your squad buddies to do some research for you after lunch?" Alex asks, perturbed. "What happened to staying out of this?"

"She was my sister," Abby returns defensively, ignoring the question as she looks down at the still-seated detective. "I think I have a right to know what you're doing to find out who killed her."

"You don't have a right to know any more than any other suspect," Alex tells her evenly. "Cop or not, you have to stay away from our investigation. In fact, you should stay away _because_ you're one of us. You should know better, Abby."

"That's not the reason you're upset, though," Bobby shakes his head. "You're upset because you know exactly what we're going to find in those records, don't you?"

Abby curls a lip in angry confusion. "The real question is what do _you_ think you're going to find, Detective?"

"We already told you that we can't talk about the case with you," Alex repeats.

Abby sneers and glances back and forth between the partners. "Oh I get it. This is the routine where you get me to tell you what you already know just to prove that I'm hiding something. It's cute – but it won't work."

"She's got us, Eames," Bobby throws his hands up in mock surrender and shoots a false look of exasperation at Alex. "She knows all the games."

"Guess we'll have to go with plan A and just read the medical records for ourselves," Alex plays along. "No telling what we'll find."

"You guys want your lunch to go?" Gina pops over to check on them.

"Yeah, thanks Gina," Bobby gives her an appreciative smile and Gina's face warms, obviously forgiving him for ignoring her earlier. He speaks the next words in her direction, though they're directed at Abby: "We've got work to do."

Abby's face has gone from ivory to pale pink and continues to redden by the minute as she glares at the detectives and Alex finds herself beginning to see why the young narcotics officer and her psychologist father don't get along – neither backs down from a fight. In fact, they seem to relish the opportunity to battle. It's the same with Bobby – he hasn't moved an inch and, if anything, he and Abby are now standing toe to toe, glaring fiercely at each other. Alex has rarely seen anyone – a woman especially – who hasn't backed down from her partner when he's assumed this defiant stance and she's a bit nervous to see what will happen next, holding her breath as she watches the scene unfold.

"Since when does work constitute going through a family's private records?" Abby demands. Her tone turns ironic. "You already know Amy was pregnant. It was a huge family secret already – which meant that everyone on the Upper East Side knew."

"Save us a lot of time, then, and tell us what we're going to find," Bobby hints while showing that he too can ignore a question. He leans a bit closer, a clear invasion of Abby's personal space, to needle her so he can watch her react. Alex, meanwhile, can't shake the feeling that she's watching a weird game of chicken and she wishes for one of them to give in before she has to radio for backup to pull them apart.

"What do you want me to do?" Abby raves, her words flying right into Bobby's face. "Do you want me to pour out my family's entire sordid history or just give you the Reader's Digest version so you can blame one of us for killing Amy? Why would we want to do that - huh? She was the best one of us – why would we want to murder her?"

"You might not have had reason, but someone else in your family did," Bobby tells her. He tilts his head to the left and sharpens his stare – a move that usually seals victory for him in games like this one.

"And that's in our medical records?" Abby counters. As she does so, she does something that Alex has never seen any other suspect do in all of the years she has been paired with Bobby: _she tilts her own head._ Now she and the tall detective are staring at each other at an angle, gazes still unwavering. The air between them almost shimmers, like the sidewalk in the city in July.

Knowing that Bobby is as shocked by this turn of events as she is, Alex has to put aside her own genuine surprise and step in so that he can regroup. In a way, it's as though they're back in Deakins' office and he's waiting for her to help him get the subpoena – except this time she's ready to take on the challenge.

"No, we expect to find the father of Amy's baby there," Alex folds her hands before her on the table, her tone sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Her words are obviously the key because as soon as they register, Abby falters. She breaks eye contact and steps away from Bobby, her demeanor shaken. Bobby shoots Alex a quick look that says, _Thanks – we got her_, then straightens his head on his neck to observe Abby's behavior, waiting for another clue to pounce on.

The young woman looks up and meets his eyes again, resolve washing over her face, but Alex can tell that her anger at them is abating a bit. She has realized that she can't beat both of them; the pair is too strong.

Bobby reaches out a hand to take her elbow and guides her over to the booth. His tone is soft now. "You knew that Andrew was the father of Amy's baby, didn't you?"

Alex watches them slide into the seat across from her and Abby begins to trace an absent pattern on the tabletop with her index finger.

"No, I didn't – not right away at least," Abby shakes her head, taking deep breaths to calm herself. "I had a suspicion when Amy first told me she was pregnant, but Keith told me he was the father so I believed him. Besides, that's not the kind of thing you want to believe about your siblings, you know?" She looks up and scans both of the detective's faces as she continues: "It wasn't until later that Keith figured it out on his own and tried to talk to me about it. I was angry with him, though. I mean, he told me he slept with my sister; how could we just switch to being friends after that? Finally he cornered me at the rehearsal dinner and I let him have it. I told him we were through and he should marry my sister and leave me alone and then Amy heard the argument and came over to break things up and I left in a huff. The next thing I know, I come home from the bar and he's sitting on my doorstep looking as bad as I've ever seen him and trying to explain to me why everything is so messed up."

She twists a napkin nervously as she concludes: "And that's when he told me that he knew he wasn't the father of Amy's baby – and that he thought Andrew was."

"How did he find out?" Alex wants to know. 

Abby gives a rueful smile. "Keith's good at math, Detective. The date of conception apparently lined up with a weekend when he was in Chicago at a meeting."

"But how did he know it was Andrew's?" Alex presses.

Abby chews the inside of her lip. "When he got back from Chicago, he found Andrew camping out at Amy's. They used to do that a lot – camp out, I mean." Her tone grows rueful: "We always used to joke that if you couldn't find one of them, you should call the other because they were probably together."

"So why not cancel the wedding?" Bobby asks, peering sideways at Abby. "I mean, if it was a sham… Besides, then you and Keith could get back together."

She meets his gaze with a stony expression. "Amy needed that marriage, Detective - a lot more than I needed Keith. That's what he and I decided that night and that's the plan we intended to stick to."

"So you got even with Amy by sleeping with Keith one last time," Alex interjects.

"It wasn't like that," Abby doesn't even bristle. "It was good-bye - like I said, Amy needed him more."

"Did Amy need the marriage – or did your father?" Alex asks. Abby remains silent.

"What about Andrew?" Bobby inserts, tilting his head again. "You were prepared to absolve him of his sins and pretend to be the perfect family?"

"I told you," Abby is defensive again, her words clipped sharply, "Andrew has enough problems to deal with."

"You all protect him," Bobby observes. "Why? What's been so hard about Andrew's life that wasn't hard about yours?"

"He's not a strong person," Abby pushes the question away.

"So you were protecting him from your father?" Alex asks. 

"You've met my father and you have to ask?" Abby raises an eyebrow.

Bobby says: "You were all afraid of him – why?"

Abby's face suddenly becomes stony and she shakes her head, closing off from them once more and rising from the booth to stare down at the detectives. "You know what? Nothing I say is going to make a difference to you people so why don't you just go read the medical records?"

She turns to walk away but before she's gone three steps, Bobby reels her back in by saying, "What am I going to find in them, Abby?"

Abby stops, then turns slowly. "Knowing what I do about you, Detective Goren, I'm sure you'll be quite entertained."

With that, she spins on her heel and leaves the restaurant, leaving Bobby to turn back to Alex and draw a deep breath, his eyes indicating to her that he's intrigued with their exchange.

"I'm really interested to talk to Andrew Markham now," Alex comments with raised eyebrows.

"I'm anxious to see those records," Bobby nods and both rise to receive their take-out bags from Gina.

***

Abby proves to be right about the records of the Markham family, the detectives soon learn as they begin to pore over the materials – especially when they look into the records of the long-deceased Cynthia Markham, whose file is larger than those of her three children combined.

"Look at this, Eames," Bobby holds out the piece of paper he's pulled from her file. "Cynthia Markham was practically a walking pharmacy when she died – and most of these are mood-altering drugs."

Alex concurs. "It says here she suffered from a form of depression before her children were born and that after she had the twins she went into a major post-partum depression that put her in the hospital three times under suicide watch."

Bobby screws up his face and rests his head on his right hand, the fingers splayed across his forehead. "So Markham married a woman with a psychological condition - that's almost too ironic. Does it say there when she was first diagnosed?"

"Looks like in college," Alex tells him, scanning the page. "She was a Bryn Mawr girl too – like Abby. Smart though – Phi Beta Kappa – and outgoing too from the looks of it – she was a member of the Delta Gamma sorority."

Bobby shakes his head. "Markham did his undergrad at Northwestern; how do you think they met?"

"Markham's little sister went to Bryn Mawr," Alex leafs through another stack of papers to answer his question. She holds one up: "And she was Delta Gamma too."

"Well, now we know how they met," he says thoughtfully and Alex nods.

"And I'm guessing the girls in the sorority knew about Cynthia's condition so Markham would have known before he married her – probably before he even dated her," Bobby is thinking out loud. "The perfect psychological experiment – what it's like to be married to someone with a mental disorder."

He's shaking his head now, clearly agitated, and Alex fights the urge to get up and walk over next to him so she can put a gentle hand on his shoulder while they wade through the rest of the materials – the contents of which are bound to increase Bobby's angry mood. Cases like these tend to dredge up unpleasant memories from his childhood – his own father's neglect and scorn for Bobby and for his mother – and her partner takes them very seriously. Still, she's walked this path with him many times before and she knows the routine inside and out. First he'll be angry with Markham, then fathers in general, and ultimately the world for allowing such men to even exist. Her job will be to curb his temper when it flares and prevent him from doing anything to jeopardize their case, his career, and – most importantly – himself. For once, though, she'd like to see if he can handle putting aside his own feelings and history long enough to work a case with some degree of objectivity. It's her own psychological experiment, she supposes.

Alex pulls another sheet from a separate file to see if she can get her partner back on track. "I'm sure he didn't care too much about her mental condition when they got married anyway – Cynthia's maiden name was Vanderbilt."

"A society girl," Bobby raises his eyebrows and Alex can tell he's still upset, but masking it relatively well. Maybe there's hope. "He certainly married well – a wealthy wife looks good when you're trying to leave a legacy."

He shuffles hastily through his stack of papers again and emerges with what looks to Alex like a coroner's autopsy report. He scans it briefly, then tells her, "She died of a massive drug overdose when Abby was nine and the twins were six. Coroner ruled it a suicide."

"Suicide - or Markham cleaning another slate?" Alex raises an eyebrow.

"I bet the latter," Bobby nods.

Alex glances back down at the stack she's working through and something else catches her eye. "Wait a minute, Bobby – here's something else."

"Hm?" he peeks at her from under the hand supporting his head.

"It says here that the body was discovered by none other than Andrew Markham," she tells him. "He and Cynthia were home alone at the time of her death."

"That's it, I'm having Andrew brought in," Bobby is dialing the phone before he finishes speaking.

***

Two uniformed officers escort Andrew in an hour later, disheveled and smelling of the coffee shop he works in. There are dark circles under his eyes that deepen under the harsh fluorescent lights of the interrogation room and his hair is tousled and unruly. Alex can't help but feel a wave of sympathy for him despite the fact that she is pretty sure he's a murderer. After all, discovering the body of your mother at the age of six is enough to ruin anyone's life and right now, Andrew looks more like that confused and frightened six-year-old than the twenty-something young man that he is. There is also something lurking in his gaze that Alex can't quite put a finger on – something that isn't quite balanced, as though there are light bulbs of different wattage powering his eyes.

"Andrew, Detective Eames and I have to ask you a few questions about the night your sister was killed," Bobby opens the questioning.

Andrew says bluntly, "You think I killed Amy, don't you?"

Bobby follows this question with a logical one: "Did you?"

Andrew blinks slowly and deliberately "No."

"You said you were at her apartment the night she was murdered," Alex begins. "What were you doing there?"

Andrew shrugs and looks down. "I wanted to talk to her. We hadn't really gotten a chance to talk at the rehearsal dinner and I felt bad."

"What did you talk about?" Alex presses. Even his tone of voice is uneven.

Another shrug. "Things."

"What things?" Alex feels her tone become annoyed.

Bobby jumps in then and gives a wave of his hand as though to tell her to back down. He's not, she knows, but rather is trying a different tactic. "No, it's okay, Andrew. You don't have to tell us if you don't want to. I mean, brothers and sisters talk about a lot of things that aren't anybody's business but their own. We understand."

"Look, it was no big deal," Andrew tells them defensively. "We just talked for a while and then I left around one."

Bobby stands and begins to pace. Alex can feel that he's gearing up for a performance of Goren-caliber and she waits for the curtains to open on Act One.

"You know, I've read a lot about twins having some sort of sixth sense," Bobby begins, clasping his hands behind his back as he paces. "Is that true? I mean, did you and Amy have the ability to 'read each other's minds,' so to speak?"

"We were close," Andrew allows, nodding slowly.

"I bet you did lots of stuff together when you were little kids – played games and make-believe and all that," Bobby nods as though to answer the question for Andrew and doesn't give him a chance to respond. "Abby probably didn't join in, being three years older and rebellious and all, but you didn't need her because you had Amy, right?"

Andrew does nod now and Bobby prattles on. "And then after your mother died, I bet you and Amy got even closer – she probably was the one who protected you when your father pushed too hard or got on your case about stuff. I mean, Abby was too busy getting into trouble to be much help, but Amy – Amy was always there for you."

Andrew nods again. "She was always there."

"Always," Bobby repeats and nods emphatically. A pause for dramatic effect – Alex fights the urge to roll her eyes because she knows he is enjoying himself a bit too much – and then: "I mean, she was always there except for when your mother died. She wasn't there when that happened – no one was." One more pause: "Except you."

Andrew's face pales sharply and he seems to be gasping for breath for a moment. Alex feels a twinge of pity – the words are meant to cut and do. Yet if they're ever going to find the truth, they must be ruthless in their pursuit of it. She understands this, but it doesn't help Andrew, who is visibly hurt and dumbstruck by the blow. Ultimately, Bobby is forced to speak again because Andrew seems incapable of it.

"I can't imagine what that must have been like for you," his tone is gentler. "But you recovered – Amy helped you. And then she was there for you again – until that other time, when you were on spring break and had the car wreck…"

He trails off as though lost in thought and Andrew jumps in, his voice a shout. "She _was_ there for me, okay? She never let me down – not once! I loved her!"

Bobby seats himself beside Alex again, the picture of calm, and says matter-of-factly, "We know you loved her. You loved her because she was there for you, because she was the only one who ever really took the time to understand you – to listen to you. It was Amy who you first talked to about the wreck, right? And then Amy who told you to talk to your father about what happened because the other counselors weren't helping. And last year she helped you with your gambling debts. You felt safe with her because she was your sister and she always knew how to make you feel better."

Alex can see where this is going and she watches Andrew's face as Bobby's next words hit home: "And when you slept with her, you knew it was okay because she was your sister and how could that be wrong?"

The words flit across the young man's features aimlessly for a moment before they settle in and when they do, tears form at the corners of his too-bright eyes and he crumples forward onto his arms.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," he tells them feebly. "I loved her."

"But you feared your father more," Bobby says in a tone that is almost conspiratorial. "And when he found out about the baby being yours, he told you that if she didn't marry Keith, you would need to clean up the mess you'd made."

Andrew doesn't speak, just stares blankly at the table. His body has begun to vibrate slightly – visibly so - as though the frequency he's on is different from that of the rest of the world.

"And then he called you from Abby's and told you that Keith was with her and the wedding would undoubtedly be cancelled," Bobby supplies. If he's noticed Andrew's behavior, he hasn't indicated so to his partner.

"I told him he couldn't be sure the wedding would be cancelled," Andrew tells them apathetically, his voice as distant as his eyes. "But he said Abby would see to it. He said we couldn't trust her."

"But you didn't want to kill Amy," Bobby says softly. "You argued with him."

Andrew nods slowly. "He told me it would be easy, that all I had to do was listen to him like I did before and everything would be okay." His tone is becoming increasingly further away, as though he's speaking from a world where the story exists, but not the two detectives who are listening. "But it wasn't like before because there was so much blood – and he told me not to clean up anything and to make it look like a robbery, but I couldn't just leave her like that…"

At the words "like before," Alex shoots a puzzled look at Bobby, whose eyebrows are knit with confusion and who seems to be flipping through his mental case file at top speed while Andrew concludes shakily.

"Andrew, what other time are you talking about?" Alex ventures. She doesn't even know if he can hear her because now she has pinpointed that look she observed in his eyes when he came in – it's the look of someone who's stepped over the edge and lost their footing, sliding down so far that return is impossible. She's seen Bobby waver close to the brink before but she's always been able to pull him back. Andrew undoubtedly relied on Amy for that task, but with her gone he's bereft. Watching him, Alex finds herself beginning to understand exactly how tightly bound two people can become over time – and how the loss of one can leave the other grasping at nothing but empty space.

Ultimately, Alex receives more rambling words from Andrew, words that continue to swirl farther away from the room they're seated in. "She looked so peaceful – like when we were little kids… Mom looked that way too…"

Alex looks to her partner and sees that they've both hit on the answer together. At the same moment, a knuckle raps insistently on the other side of the two-way mirror, demanding their presence.

The detectives move in haste, Bobby explaining to Andrew that he's going to be detained and that the uniformed officers will escort him to a holding cell and Alex rounding up said officers for the task. On the way to meet with Deakins and Carver, they speak rapid-fire words:

"He used his own son for his dirty work," Bobby's words are tipped with rage.

"The real question here is how did he get a six-year-old to commit murder in the first place?" Alex demands.

Bobby shakes his head absently, the anger causing him to shake slightly. "She died of a drug overdose – he probably got the kid to mix it up in some pudding or something and feed it to her."

"That's the worst thing I've ever heard," Alex nearly has to run to keep up with her partner's long strides.

"No, the worst thing is that we can't prove it," Bobby says as they stride through the door and meet up with the glowering faces of Deakins and Carver.


	8. Crossroads

Author's Note: Well, here we are. For a while I wasn't sure it would happen, but we've arrived at the end of the story. Who dunnit? Will she? Won't she? All of these questions and more are about to be answered, but before I do that, I need to acknowledge some people both living and dead. First, the living: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story throughout the writing process. Your support and kind words have been invaluable and I'm anxious to hear how you like the ending. Thank you also to Dick Wolf for unwittingly lending me his characters (and for not suing me). And thanks to two very dead people, without whom I would have had no words to build from. They are William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway.

Carver doesn't even wait for the door to shut behind the detectives before starting to shout. "Would you care to explain to me why Donald Markham's son is in there without a lawyer, detectives? And why he's confessing to a murder that you're not assigned to? Please tell me he was at least mirandized before you pulled that stunt!"

"He didn't ask for one," Bobby starts to say before Deakins cuts him off with a forceful tirade of his own.

"You realize, of course, that the mayor can have all of our badges for this," the captain fumes. "In fact, we may already be fired – I just got off the phone with him two minutes ago. We can probably all kiss our pensions good-bye!"

"And while he was on the phone with the mayor, I was on the phone with Markham's attorney," Carver doesn't give either detective a chance to speak. "They're probably going to sue us over this! We could all lose our jobs."

"Wait," Bobby's brows are furrowing again and he holds out a hand in an effort to deflect their words so he can hear his own thoughts, "how did Markham know that his son was here? Andrew was picked up at work an hour ago and there wasn't even time for him to…"

He trails off and turns to Alex, who reads his eyes and knows they're on the same page. After all, they've only spoken with one other member of the Markham family today – and it wasn't Donald.

They speak in one breath: "Abby."

"How Dr. Markham found out isn't important…" Carver begins a new rant before Bobby starts running at full speed again, blatantly ignoring the attorney.

"She knew about her mother all along," he turns to face Alex now and she can feel the nervous energy coming from him in waves. It's palpable; every time a piece falls into place in his mind, it's like an electric jolt surges through both of them and everything he's thinking becomes perfectly clear to her, as if he's transmitting his thoughts into her mind even before he speaks the words.

"She knew Markham arranged to have Andrew kill their mother," he's gesturing with his left hand while he expounds. "How she knew or when isn't important, but she knew about it and she also knew that we'd figure it out if we had the medical records."

"Especially because we were bound to question Andrew," Alex picks up the thread. "We'd questioned the rest of the family and she had to have seen the alteration in his behavior following the murder. It was probably easy for her to put things together…"

"No, she counted on us putting it together," Bobby corrects her, perched on the verge of frantic. "She set us up to do it all along and she probably staked out the coffee house where Andrew works right after she left us because she knew we'd be picking him up. We played right into her hand and she couldn't resist calling Markham to rub it in. The way she sees it, the man is about to be exposed as a murderer and she'll get justice for her mother after all of these years."

"But she has to know that Andrew won't be a good witness in his current mental state and that his word alone won't be enough to convict, considering he was six at the time," Alex shakes her head, confused.

"That's not what she's trying to do…" Bobby is suddenly pensive and distracted as multiple ideas collide inside his head. "This is personal. It's between she and Markham and it's what their lifelong feud has been building to – in fact, it's what started it in the first place…"

Alex watches a thought – the truth – careen into her partner's consciousness and explode like a meteor on impact. His eyes widen in fear and then he's a flurry of motion, scrambling for the door, notebook tucked haphazardly under his arm as he cries to Alex, "We have to get to Abby's apartment – now!"

Deakins and Carver are clearly bewildered as they watch the detectives race away mid-chastising, and Alex feels a slight twinge of guilt for leaving that is soon replaced with trepidation – because if Bobby's right, they're about to enter a potentially deadly situation.

***

_Bobby doesn't even have a vest on._

This is the thought that keeps running through Alex's head half an hour later as she stands by the door of Abby Markham's apartment, gun raised and ready. She's positioned at the outskirts of one of the most confusing – and dangerous – stand-offs she's ever witnessed and that one persistent thought won't let go of her.

_Bobby doesn't even have a vest on._

They raced out of One Police Plaza in such haste that they barely had time to request the SWAT team backup that now waits in the hall, poised and ready for the cue to step in. There was no time to grab a kevlar vest, no time to grab their overcoats, no time to even speak; they just raced to the parking lot, leapt into the Explorer, and prayed that they'd make it to Abby's in time.

And now Bobby is standing smack in the middle of things, gun raised but utterly vulnerable. He removed his tie on the drive over – yanked it off in frustration is more like – and left his suit jacket in the car as well. He was in such a hurry to get there, to prevent Abby and her father from hurting each other, that he's made himself into a very tall target in a pale blue shirt.

And his ire at the situation isn't helping either.

He spent the entire drive gesticulating wildly with his hands and shaking his head, all the while repeating over and over to Alex that he can't believe Markham's audacity, that he can't fathom how someone with such an ego hasn't been caught before.

"He had to have slipped up before now!" Bobby had said. "The man turned his own son into a murder weapon and got away with it for twenty years!"

"He's been careful to protect that legacy he's so bent on having," Alex tried to soothe him while weaving in and out of traffic.

"He's ruined his legacy for sure now," Bobby shook his head, face still distorted with frustration. "I just hope we get there in time to save Abby's."

In a way, Alex supposes, they did arrive in time. In fact, they found Abby very much alive upon arrival – alive and holding her own with her off-duty pistol leveled at her father. He, in turn, is holding a 9-millimeter handgun pointed at her and even now continues to spout furious words in her direction, blaming all of the recent events on her. The door was wide open when the detectives arrived – kicked open, by the look of it – and they approached with caution to gauge the scene. But then, before Alex could talk him out of it or call for more back up, Bobby was in motion. With that catlike grace that only he possesses, her partner somehow managed to weasel his way into the middle of the room and wedge himself practically in between the Markhams so that now they stand in a sort of deadly triangle.

All are poised to shoot. It's a deadly replay of lunch at the diner – a giant game of chicken that this time has more players and live ammunition instead of loaded words.

Alex stays by the door, rooted in place and holding her breath while trying to keep her hands from shaking as she holds her firearm level, pointed at Markham but ready to do whatever it takes to protect her partner. Bobby was so upset when they arrived that Alex knows he wasn't thinking clearly when he put himself in danger. He is thinking only of capturing Markham, of making him pay for his crimes - and of preventing Abby from being his third victim. Bobby may die to bring about the justice he so strongly desires and Alex doesn't think this fact has even occurred to him, so focused is he on his goal.

It's occurred to her, though, and she can't help but stand on the brink of panic.

And then, inexplicably, she recognizes this moment for what it is: This is the one. The moment of choice has arrived – though it doesn't look anything like she expected. Yet this must be the one – it has to be because otherwise she wouldn't recognize it.

In fact, it's almost funny, she thinks with bitter irony. All along, she thought the choice of where she wanted her life to take her would be hers; she thought that because this time she would recognize the crossroad, it would be up to her to decide where to go instead of being pulled into the current like before. Yet it appears that Fate has a wicked sense of humor because he's taken it out of her hands again. One shot, one pull of a trigger, and Bobby will be taken away like Michael was. One shot and Alex is back at square one without even the barest hint of guidance.

And suddenly she's angry because it's only now that she realizes what she would do if it were left up to her. Despite its chaos, despite its lack of routine and normalcy, and despite the inhumanity she faces every day, Alex would choose this life over those once-treasured suburban dreams of the picture-perfect family. She would choose to solve crimes and clean up her little corner of New York City. She would choose to work hours that aren't written on any clock. She would choose bad coffee and bloody crime scenes.

_She would choose her life with Bobby._

It's a life she didn't ask for and one that she didn't expect. It's a life that drives her crazy when it isn't annoying her to no end. And it's a life that's hers and no one else's. It's a life filled with little moments of intimacy and humor that you have to be looking for in order to see – and it's all because of Bobby Goren. No one understands her the way he does. No one relies on her or trusts her – _needs her_ - the way he does and she realizes that theirs is a very special and unique relationship. What they have goes beyond partnership and friendship - even beyond love. It's that rare meeting of two souls where the uniting of the halves forms one complete and perfect whole, a union that burns so brightly that all other relationships seem dim. Bobby makes her job bearable – and he makes her life more complete than she ever thought it could be without the things she once thought were necessary for happiness, things like a husband, two point five children, and a dog.

She can't live without him.

She could survive without him – that's certainly possible - but she wouldn't be truly alive ever again if Bobby were to be killed today. Their lives are inextricably bound – like that of Amy and Andrew Markham – to the degree that their futures must likewise coexist. If Bobby's future ceases to be today, then so does Alex's, just as Andrew's ended with that of his sister. Without Bobby, Alex can't move forward; instead she'll be stuck in a world where everything – every man in a perfectly tailored suit, every couple arguing on the sidewalk, every chai latte – will remind her of him – _of them_ - and of what they had.

In fact, it's almost preposterous now to even think she had a choice in the first place, Alex realizes. How could she have ever thought the universe would allow them to be parted just because she had once planned a different life? They're Bobby and Alex, for goodness sakes – Goren and Eames. They're inseparable.

And if the universe knows that, Alex prays that Donald Markham does too – because his gun is pointed directly at her partner's chest.

"This doesn't concern you, Detective," Markham's voice is shaking and the cool, superior demeanor he exuded when the interviewed him in his office has vanished. Like his son, he's a man who has stepped over the edge – and judging from the expression on his face, he doesn't want to even try to return.

"I'm afraid it does," Bobby's tone is low and calculating. "You see, your daughter's murder is my case – and if you kill Abby, that will be my case too."

"The bitch ruined everything," Markham hisses. "She deserves to die."

"Which one ruined everything?" Bobby tilts his head, his fury apparent as his tone becomes smoother - dangerous. "Abby or Amy? They both certainly messed up your idea of how their lives were supposed to be. They both ruined your legacy – just like you're doing right now by holding a gun on your own daughter."

"Abby's been a thorn in my side from Day One," Markham tells him angrily. "She has it in for me – and so do you. You're threatened by me and you've been waiting to come after me for no good reason since the day you were in my office. I can spot a failed psychologist a mile away, Detective."

Bobby snorts derisively. "Then you haven't looked in a mirror lately."

"You're not fit to wear a badge," Markham retorts.

"And you're not fit to be a parent," Bobby spits the words. "Your own daughter wants you dead or in prison – what does that say about you?"

"There is nothing wrong with my parenting skills," Markham snarls.

"He killed my mother and he thinks he's a good parent," Abby tells Bobby, her voice cutting through the thick air between the two men. She is still holding her gun on her father and her stance is the only one that is unwavering. It's as though she's been planning this moment for a long time – and Alex guesses that she has.

Abby vents to Markham: "You were tired of using her as your test subject and she was ruining your reputation in Upper East Side society so you wanted to be rid of her. But heaven forbid you should dirty your own hands so you got Andrew to do it for you." Her voice cracks. "He was six! He loved the zoo and cartoons on TV and you made him a murderer! He killed his own mother! And worst of all, you think this makes you some sort of genius. You make me sick!"

"I didn't kill her!" Markham alters his position so that he can see both she and Bobby more clearly. He waves the gun a bit erratically and Alex winces with fear. One slip of a finger and it's all over.

"No – you got a child to do it for you!" Abby raves. "An innocent child! And to hear you tell it, it proves that you're a brilliant psychologist worthy of all of those ridiculous accolades people heap on you. You're a murderer – and a coward – and I think it's about time the world knew it."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Markham argues, eyes glinting dangerously. "You never do – the only thing you care about is ruining me. You've been out to do it since you were nine years old."

"Andrew was a child!" Abby repeats, shouting. "He was a child and you turned him into a murderer – who does a thing like that?"

"Your mother was sick," Markham tries to put her off. "She was tired and she…"

"She didn't deserve to die!" Abby screams.

"You don't understand," Markham lowers his tone. "You don't remember clearly what it was like…"

"Hey, I understand where you're coming from," Bobby jumps in, switching to an icy, soothing tone while he inches closer to Markham. Alex can still recognize the anger hidden behind his words, though. He doesn't want to kill Markham – but he certainly wants to get his hands on him. Bobby continues: "Living with a person who has a mental disorder is very hard. You want to help them in any way you can…"

"Oh he helped her alright," Abby fumes, her voice still cracking and angry. "Just like he helped us growing up. Do you know what it's like, Detective, to grow up in a household where your father tries to predict your every upcoming behavior based on statistical data from your age group? Where your father manipulates your siblings to see how it will effect their development so he can write some paper on it?"

Bobby shifts his attention to her briefly. "That's why you and Amy took care of Andrew. You were protecting him. You, Abby, you personally tried everything you could to protect him from your father – you even developed a drug habit to draw attention to you and away from Andrew."

Alex is inching forward as unobtrusively as possible, trying to get closer to the scene in case things go bad, still clinging to the hope that Bobby can diffuse it before anyone gets hurt. So far, he's doing all right, but her heart still races with fear. There are a lot of things she's never said to Bobby, little things like the fact that she loves the sound of his laugh, the genuine one that rumbles out of his chest so rarely. It's entirely different from the one he affects when they're working undercover or the half-laugh he gives when something strikes him as mildly amusing and she doesn't think it's a sound she can ever get enough of.

Now she can only pray she'll hear it once more.

"She was on drugs because she lacks self-control," Markham snarls to Bobby. "Making me look like a bad parent was just a happy bonus for her."

"Maybe," Bobby agrees with a waggle of his head. "But after you sent her to rehab and then college, things got better. Amy made peace between all of you – I can only imagine how hard that was for her to do."

"And then he got Andrew to kill Amy," Abby is still fighting mad and agitated by Bobby's attempt at disarming the situation. If anything, he's getting calmer and she's getting panicky.

"Amy was killed by a robber!" Markham shouts at her.

"No she wasn't. Andrew told us the truth," Bobby shakes his head. "He told us everything. Abby's right."

"You'd take the word of a crazy person over a respected psychologist?" Markham is raving – an ironic contrast to his words.

"If Andrew's crazy, it's because you made him that way," Abby tells him.

"I did no such thing," Markham's face reddens. "You cops are all the same – lying, filthy…"

"Yeah, we're not all educated doctors like yourself," Bobby taunts. He's toying with the doctor again. "Some of us are just failed psychologists. Funny thing though, we're right a lot of the time."

"You bastard," Markham's voice is dangerously low. His gun is still pointed at Bobby's chest and his finger twitches on the trigger.

And then Alex has another flash – an image flits across her mind's eye of the days, weeks, and even months after Michael died. She remembers sitting in the apartment all alone after her friends and family departed, listening to the sound of the clock ticking, the refrigerator cycling, and her own sobs, all the while wondering if the silence that seemed to press around the everyday noises would ever be filled. And now she has Bobby, whose presence is so loud in her life that she sometimes wishes for just a few seconds of peace and quiet, an evening without a phone call to share a new insight or a night with dreams that don't convey his voice. Yet then she hears that laugh and it makes the silence seem much too small.

Bobby flashes a white grin – a sardonic one – at Markham and says, "Oh yeah, you did write one article – 'The Guilty Child,' I believe it was called – that you might want to revise and submit for re-publication. I bet those psychology journals would love to get their hands on it once this all goes public."

"You're taunting me, Detective," Markham's voice comes up again and he squints at Bobby, trigger finger relaxing again. "You're attempting to provoke me by belittling my authority. I bet it's a tactic that works for you an awful lot, given that you're rather practiced at it. But you're also angry – I can sense that. Are you angry with me or with your own father – that's the real question. In the meantime, though, I'm guessing you'd like to just shoot me to save time."

"I know I would," Abby puts in while Bobby gives the slow, agonizing blink that indicates Markham's words have hit home and he's regrouping.

"You stupid little girl," Markham says to her in a superior tone, diverting his attention from Bobby for a moment. "You think you're so far above all of this when in reality you're no better than anyone else. You slept with your sister's fiancé on the night before her wedding, for God's sake. It's the kind of thing I expect from you, I suppose – the kind of thing I've been cleaning up after for years."

"Yes I did," she nods. Then she tilts her head in Goren-esque fashion and her voice becomes conspiratorial. "And you know what the funny part is? You went to a lot of trouble – a lot of cleanup - for nothing. Keith would have been at that church on Saturday. He would have married Amy and I would have let him. You made Andrew kill her for nothing."

"You lie," Markham hisses dangerously. Bobby is inching closer to Markham while the doctor is distracted.

Abby's face flickers with the briefest of hesitations, and then something else washes over her – acceptance, Alex thinks, but it's gone before she can really identify it. Abby tells her father evenly and with finality: "They'd be on their honeymoon in Barbados right now and you'd be prepping for the _Today _show. Your obsession with your ridiculous legacy just took out everything you've spent your entire life working for."

Markham's eyes widen and the moment of truth arrives.

Bobby must sense it too and now everything _is_ happening in slow motion – or at least it seems that way to Alex:

Markham whirls to face Abby at the same time that Bobby hurls himself into motion. He'll try to protect her, Alex knows – he'll die to protect her because he empathizes with her – understands her pain – and because he hates to lose. He'll take the bullet meant for Abby and not think twice.

Markham fires.

Abby moves too, so that at the last possible second she is in front of Bobby, firing her own weapon at her father.

Alex has a clear shot and fires at Markham.

Bobby and Abby fall, two bodies twisting in midair and landing with a dull thud.

Markham crumples to the floor, mortally wounded by the two rounds fired by the women.

Alex rushes forward, only halfway hearing the SWAT detail clamoring in behind her, barking into their radios.

And then silence.

For a long moment, Alex hears absolutely nothing – not even the sound of her own pounding heart – nor does she see anything but blurry shapes as she races across the room in the direction of where her partner lays on the floor.

Then a welcome and familiar voice cuts through the chaos and asks, "Eames, you okay?"

Suddenly the scene before her is clear: Bobby is sitting up, his blue shirt stained with blood that Alex instantly knows is not his.

"Are _you_ okay?" she wants to know, reaching him in two strides and crouching, feeling her knees shake and putting her hands on them to steady herself.

He nods hastily and is already in motion, attempting to staunch the floor of blood from Abby's chest. "I need an ambulance here! Officer down!"

Behind the detectives, the SWAT team checks the body of Donald Markham and indicate that he's dead while a tall blond officer follows Bobby's order and radios in a 10-13 – officer down.

Abby is on her back and her eyes don't seem able to focus as she gasps for breath. There is a question there, though – one that Alex answers.

"He's gone," she tells her softly. She leans her shoulder against Bobby's to touch him and make sure he's really there. It's all she can do for now because he's caught up in the last battle of the day, the one to save Abby's life. He lost against Markham – the psychologist has taken the easy way out – and Alex knows that to lose Abby too will indicate an utter and complete failure to her partner.

Abby inhales sharply and manages to croak, "Take care of Andrew for me. He doesn't deserve prison."

"We'll make sure he gets help," Bobby assures her. How he can sound so together after what just happened, Alex isn't sure. Bobby's shoulder is the only thing keeping her world from spinning out of control right now.

Abby gives a small, weak smile. "My father should have read more Faulkner – if he had, he might have seen this coming."

And with a final gasp, she ceases to be.

"Dammit," Bobby hisses, rising and waving his bloodied hands in frustration. He looks down at Abby's prone form again and repeats the word with more force: "Dammit!"

He stalks out of the apartment, past the SWAT officers securing the scene and the paramedics who have arrived to late. Alex knows he's headed outside for fresh air.

Bobby hates to lose.

She glances at Abby one last time. Abby hated to lose too – as did her father. Pitted head to head, neither was in a position to win and ultimately their similarity proved to be their undoing. In fact, in this situation, there were no winners – except maybe Alex, and her prize is the very tall and distraught man waiting for her outside.

She finds him leaning against the driver's door of the Explorer, staring at the sidewalk and garnering stares from passersby at the bloodstains on his shirt and hands. He's frowning and everything about his stance suggests that he wants to be left alone, but Alex knows that he'll let her in. He has no one else to turn to – no one who will understand anyway.

And neither does Alex.

She walks over, leans up beside him so that her shoulder rests on his arm and asks a question, the first one that comes to mind.

"So what did she mean when she said that thing about Faulkner?"

Bobby turns and looks at her quizzically for a brief moment before he gives a shake of his head as though to clear his thoughts. He answers, "In the end of _Absalom, Absalom_, the entire family dies except for one son and he's crazy."

Alex nods thoughtfully. "I guess Markham should have read the book then."

"It was better than anything he ever wrote," Bobby's frown returns.

"Bobby, you couldn't…" she starts to say before he interrupts.

"I know." A wave of his bloody hand to stop the flow of her words.

"You can't win all the time," she tries another tact, the words sounding hollow to her own ears.

He looks at her for a long moment. "I wanted to win this one."

"I know," she nods in understanding and they stand side by side in silence, waiting for CSU to arrive. There's nothing else they can do for the Markham's now.


	9. The End and the Beginning

Abby Markham's funeral is on a Thursday and her entire department shows up in their dress blues to pay their respects, as do most of the Upper East Side and more than half of her Bryn Mawr graduating class. The men from her squad – Berlutti, Liston, Sandoval and the rest – act as her pallbearers, even as tears streak shamelessly down their cheeks. These are men who rarely show emotion, Alex knows as she watches them. In their line of work, emotion can get a person killed - and yet when they are touched deeply by something, they overflow.

Her partner is the same way.

He doesn't want her to see him wipe a single tear from the corner of his eye with his white-gloved hand and tries to hide it by turning his head to the side, but she sees anyway. And then she wipes away a few tears of her own.

Keith MacMillan is sobbing openly and unabashedly in the front row, head bent low, and Alex's heart goes out to him. He's lost two loves in a matter of weeks. There probably aren't enough words to describe the depths of his pain – nor are there enough to help Andrew Markham, who is present with a guard detail, looking completely alone in the world.

And then Alex feels more tears well up for him because she realizes that he is, in fact, an orphan. This time there will be no Amy and no Abby to help him pick up the pieces; he will have to find his way out of the darkness alone.

Alex says a silent prayer of thanks to Abby Markham then, because had she not stepped in front of Bobby when Donald Markham fired, Alex might be attending an entirely different funeral today. Bobby knows this too – that he owes his life to a young woman who tried to escape the downward pull of her family but was unsuccessful. Abby fulfilled the promise that every police officer makes but hopes to never be called on - the promise to give up his or her life in order to serve justice - and Bobby feels a bit guilty that she was the one who made the sacrifice instead of him. Alex can sense this in the way he's been pensive and subdued since it happened, yet she thinks he is beginning to accept the course of events; that he understands that it was Abby's battle in the end and that despite his personal interest in matters, he was merely an innocent bystander. 

Yet there is still something else that stands out for her about the entire situation, and as they walk to the car after the service, Alex asks the question that's been bugging her since the day of the stand-off.

"Bobby, I have to know something," she begins as they break away from the dispersing crowd. "Do you get the sense that Abby saw that scenario with her father as her fate and accepted it?"

He is silent for a moment and doesn't look at her, then: "Yes."

Alex shakes her head slightly. "I never used to go in for all of that destiny mumbo jumbo, but lately things have been too… I don't know – _coincidental_, I guess."

Bobby starts talking with his hands as his lips form the words, indicating he's thinking aloud. "It's like Abby said, the timing of things is important. If you factor in events that occur at particular times, it makes fate seem pretty real when you figure that if you'd shown up at a particular coffee shop five minutes later, you might have missed meeting your soulmate or if you'd been on time at the airport, you'd have been on a plane that crashed."

Alex nods, understanding, and softly adds, "Or if a drug bust had happened an hour earlier…"

She doesn't finish the thought because that hour was over long ago – so long that she can't imagine her life any other way than it is right now.

Bobby comments, "Just remember that Fate also does a few good deeds now and then – puts the right people in the right place at the right time."

She waits, then asks, "Bobby, do you think that we…?"

He cuts her off. "Yes."

She stops then and takes hold of his arm, turning to look at his face - to really look at him. He looks down and their eyes lock not in a stare, but in silent appraisal. His dark eyes, normally shielded in self-protection, open for her and between them passes a single thought: _This is enough. Here and now in this moment and all the other ones like it where we understand each other perfectly, this is enough. These moments are more than many receive in their lifetimes; we are lucky._

How long they stand that way, she isn't sure. All she knows is that Bobby finally breaks the contact and says, slightly uncomfortable, "Come on, we'd better go. It's getting late."

"Late?" she repeats blankly.

"Yeah – didn't you say you were going to visit your sister tonight?" he says, changing to a safe subject as they walk on.

She did – she remembers that now – but suddenly she doesn't want to go there. In fact, she wants to go anywhere but there. Her sister and brother-in-law and the baby are too much like the life she doesn't want anymore and she doesn't think she can face such normalcy tonight. After everything that's happened, she just wants some peace and quiet.

But she doesn't want to be alone either.

"I think I'm going to cancel," she says off-handedly. "I'll go this weekend instead."

He nods, accepting this, then says after a moment: "In that case, you want to go grab some dinner later?"

To say yes feels right. Bobby must feel the same way she does about being alone right now. "Okay."

He nods again. "Amanati's?"

She rolls her eyes reflexively. "We were just there, Bobby."

"So what?" Bobby shrugs innocently.

"So I'm not watching you flirt with Gina all night," Alex argues, feeling better than she has in a few weeks as things fall back into place. This is what they do and who they are. This is Alex Eames' normal life, the one she's chosen and the one she loves.

"Who's flirting? Can't a man admire a beautiful woman without it being labeled as flirting?" he wants to know as they reach the car.

"Yes he can," she tells him as she opens the driver's door, "but when he tells her that no one carries a tray as gracefully as she does, it's flirting."

This bantering form of argument is solely theirs – just like the moment. The dinner should be the same – just for them – and both suddenly realize it as they watch Andrew Markham being taken back into custody while Keith MacMillan climbs into the back of a waiting limousine. They are two souls alone in the world, whereas Alex and Bobby have each other and the soul they share between them.

Sobered by the sight of the two men, Bobby acquiesces. "Chinese instead?"

Alex smiles. "You're on."

FIN


End file.
